The Sorting of Sherlock Holmes
by Blue Seidr
Summary: In which Sherlock is Sorted the same year as Harry Potter, and the Sorting Hat is far smarter than it appears.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my 50th posting! WAHOO!**

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**One of the biggest debates in Potterlock; House placements for John and Sherlock. Here is my own little version of the Sorting Ceremony for Sherlock Holmes.**

**This is my first Sherlock fic, so I apologize for any OOC-ness.**

**Enjoy!**

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The Sorting of Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock gazed up with a mask of polite disinterest as the woman who had introduced herself as "Professor McGonagall" stepped up onto the staff table platform. She stood stiffly next to a three-legged stool, unrolling a scroll that had been stuck inside her cloak. However, it was not Professor McGonagall that Sherlock, and the rest of his fellow first years, were staring at. Rather, all eyes were trained on the pointed hat that rested atop the stool.

It was most likely one of the oldest pieces of clothing Sherlock had ever seen. It was an ugly faded brown color, and was frayed around the edges. Scarf-like ribbons of silk hung of the back rim, presumably to frame the face. Clearly a very old fashion statement. The evidence of patch-jobs were clear as day to Sherlock on nearly every square centimeter of the hat, and Sherlock wondered if any of the hat was actually original.

The female professor raised her hand, and the entire hall fell silent. _'Clearly,' _Sherlock thought, _'this is a professor not to be messed with.'_

However, despite catching the attention of everyone in the room, the professor did not say anything, and instead turned her own eyes to the hat. Pure silence reigned in the hall, the crackling of the torches even seeming to quiet, and the suspense that Sherlock felt (but was careful to hide) grew to an almost unbearable level.

With a startling jerk, the hat rose from its slumped position, and eyes seemed to form from the creases and folds. A nanosecond later, Sherlock realized that that was exactly what they were. The brim split open in two, and to Sherlock's shock, a voice boomed from the hat. A _singing_ voice.

_Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find, _

_A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I am the Hogwarts Sorting Hat,_

_And I can cap them all._

_There's nothing hidden in your head,_

_The Sorting Hat can't see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you,_

_Where you ought to be._

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry, _

_Set Gryffindors apart._

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuff are true,_

_And unafraid of toil._

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_If you've a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind._

_Or perhaps in Slytherin,_

_You'll find your true friends,_

_These cunning folk use any means,_

_To achieve their ends._

_So put me down! Don't be afraid!_

_And don't get in a flap!_

_You're in safe hands (though I have none),_

_For I am a Thinking Cap!_

Sherlock joined in the polite round of applause that echoed around the hall. _'It wasn't a horrendous song.' _He mused as he clapped. _'For a hat, anyway.'_

Professor McGonagall raised her hand for silence, and the large gathering fell quiet once more.

"When I call your name, you will put on the Hat and sit on the stool to be Sorted." She explained. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Obvious, even if the Hat hadn't just sung an entire song about it.

"Abbot, Hannah." McGonagall announced.

A girl with blond pigtails stumbled out of the crowd and onto the stool. McGonagall dropped the Hat over Hannah's head, and it immediately fell down past her eyes, far too large for the poor girl. A moment passed, then -

"HUFFLEPUFF!" The Hat declared in a voice that rang clear through the room. The look on Hannah's face as she threw off the Hat and ran to the cheering table of kids in yellow-accented robes could only be described as pure relief.

"Anderson, Philip'' and "Bones, Susan" became Hufflepuff's as well, but the next student, a "Boot, Terry" became a Ravenclaw, and joined a table full of blue-accented robes and books. "Brocklehurst, Mandy" went to Ravenclaw eagerly, and "Brown, Lavender" became the first new Gryffindor.

"Bulstrode, Millicent", a large, unpleasant looking girl, was the first 11-year-old to join Slytherin, and as Sherlock followed her descent to the Slytherin table, he caught the eye of a tall boy sitting at the end of the table, a silver and green badge marking him as a 7th year prefect and Head Boy. None other than Mycroft Holmes, his older brother.

Mycroft held his faze, an icy appraising look in his eye, before nodding coldly, as if sharing a secret message. Sherlock tore his eyes away, refusing to nod back. Mycroft had changed over the last few years, becoming more and more obsessed with his career and spending less time with Sherlock, and Sherlock certainly didn't like it. Nor was he happy about the message Mycroft was so obviously trying to convey.

"Finch-Fletchley, Justin" was the next name Sherlock heard, and Sherlock noticed with a slight hint of nervousness it was almost his turn.

Justin almost immediately went to Hufflepuff, and after a good minute of thought, "Finnigan, Seamus" was sent to the Gryffindor table. "Granger, Hermione", a bushy-haired girl who nearly ran to the stool (_Muggleborn_, Sherlock deducted), also became a Lion. Then -

"Holmes, Sherlock!" McGonagall called.

Sherlock quickly put a cool, blank façade as he stepped forward and up to the stool. He settled delicately on the old wooden platform and for a split second stared out at the entire school, before his vision was blocked by the inside of the Hat.

_"Oh, you are a tricky one, Mr. Holmes." _Sherlock heard the voice of the Hat whisper in his head. _"Far more so than your brother."_

_"Thank you." _Sherlock mentally preened. It was always a delight to be better at something than Mycroft, especially after years of being "the stupid one".

_"That was not a compliment."_ The Hat grumbled._ "Now, where to put you? You are quite cunning, and of course, a pure-blood, but you lack the ambition to prove yourself that most Slytherins do. You're just in it for the thrill."_

_"I am not going to Slytherin."_ Sherlock told the Hat firmly. There was no way he was going to be in the same house as Mycroft and his elite snobbish "friends". Plus, he would rather avoid the curse of being known as evil.

_"You are extremely intelligent."_ The Hat continued to muse, carrying on as he hadn't heard him. _"Clever, bookish, one of the most inquisitive and complex minds I've ever seen. Ravenclaw would suit you well."_

Ravenclaw. Sherlock's expected house, and his personal choice.

_"Okay then." _He tried to say. But the Hat wasn't finished yet.

_"But there's loyalty here, oh yes, plenty. Only for those who earn it, of course. And despite what you and everyone else may think, you can be kind when you want to, when people earn your kindness. Like that kind old lady in the cottage. Mrs. Hudson, correct? Hufflepuff isn't completely out of the question for you either."_

Sherlock flinched. Hufflepuff? What was the Hat thinking? He wouldn't last 5 minutes in the House of the Happy-Go-Lucky.

_"Now, you're also quite adventurous, aren't you little pirate?"_

Sherlock felt a vague warmth in his cheeks. A blush, he embarrassedly deduced.

_"You are brave and daring, and long for that thrill of the chase. You can also be quite stubborn, when you want to stand your ground. Which is just about always, I can see. Gryffindor would be a good place for you as well."_

Gryffindor?! Now he knew the Hat was crazy. No Holmes in living memory or recorded history (at least, in the Holmes library) had ever been Sorted into Gryffindor. And while he may have enjoyed a good game of pirates when he was younger, he was 11 now, and not nearly as daring as the Hat was making him out to be.

Though the look on Mycroft's face would be absolutely priceless . . .

Sherlock contemplated the Hat's words until he had sucked every detail he could out of them. It was then that he realized the Hat had not spoken in what felt like hours, and had not announced a house for him.

_"Sorting Hat? Are you there?"_ He mentally asked.

_"Where else would I be?"_ The Hat responded, a bitter undertone clear in its voice.

_"On the head of another student?"_ Sherlock retorted sarcastically. _"What's taking so long? What is my House?"_

Another long pause. Sherlock barely bit back a sigh. This was growing tedious. Surely the Hat could see that Ravenclaw was really the only house for him?

_"You underestimate yourself, little pirate."_

_"Stop calling me that!" _Sherlock snapped.

_"Mmmm, I don't think I will. I rather like it. Anyway, you encompass the main qualities of each house. Cunning, wit, loyalty, and bravery. I could put you in any house, and you could fit in there. Well, as well as a Divergent like you fits in."_

_"Divergent?"_

_"Something from a Muggle book the Granger girl had been reading, forget it." _The Hat dismissed.

_"Look, I just want to go to Ravenclaw, where they won't be as big of idiots as the rest of this school. And since you agree I could go there, just announce it so I can get off this bloody stool."_

The Hat hummed slightly. _"You do realize that no one in Ravenclaw is guaranteed to be smart? Just wanting to be smart is enough to get you in."_

_"What?"_ Sherlock mentally growled. So he couldn't even count on the House of Learning to provide more intelligent company? That was pathetic.

_"But I have Sorted some intelligent people - some that might even be worthy of your attention - into the other houses."_

_"Are you trying to get me to change my mind? Because if you have a house you're dying to sort me into, just tell me already." _Sherlock rolled his covered eyes. This was taking forever. At this point, he just wanted it over with.

_"No, you are genuinely a tricky customer. But let us narrow it down. Hufflepuff probably isn't for you. Theoretically, you have the potential. Practically? Nope. Slytherin would be ideal considering your blood status and your clever nature, but as you absolutely despise the idea and have no tolerance for the political games that go on in that house, perhaps we should try to keep Hogwarts mostly in one piece and leave that House be."_

_"Thank you." _Sherlock thought in relief. Finally the Hat was starting to see sense.

_"So that just leaves us with Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. You seem quite keen on Ravenclaw, having the desire to learn all you can about magic and be around people who won't think of you as a freak for choosing books over people."_

Sherlock flinched at the word. _Freak. _He had come here hoping to get away from that word.

_"Precisely. But what you need is not books, nor people who will ignore you for their studies. You need friends, little pirate."_

Sherlock curled up his lip in a sneer. _"Friends? What do friends have to do with anything?"_

_"You're lonely, little pirate. Don't even bother denying it. Ever since Mycroft's fourth year, he hasn't been the same, and you had barely seen him before then. Mycroft was all you had, and you haven't truly had him in years. You need someone, Sherlock Holmes."_

_"What are you, my guidance counselor?" _Sherlock snapped at the Hat_. "Your job is to Sort me into the House I belong in, so Sort!"_

_"My job, Mr. Holmes, is to Sort students into the House they fit into most and will succeed. You may fit the bill for Ravenclaw, but it is the House of the Lions where you would truly flourish. After all, every great pirate needs a loyal crew."_

_"I - This was your plan all along! You wanted me in Gryffindor from the beginning!" _Sherlock accussed.

_"No, actually, it wasn't. It genuinely took me a while to decide, but now it is clear. Your House shall be _GRYFFINDOR!" The Hat shouted the last word to the Hall, and Sherlock lifted the Hat up filled with both tension and relief.

The scene in the Hall had changed since he had put the Hat on. The remaining first years were sitting on the floor, indicating he had been under the Hat for quite some time. It was even darker outside the windows, stars shining brightly in the enchanted ceiling above, and torches burning even brighter than before. Silence had filled the Hall, even after the Hat's announcement.

Sherlock snuck a look at Mycroft, and felt a pleased smirk spread across his lips at the absolutely flabbergasted expression on Mycroft's face. Realizing his brother's gaze was upon him, Mycroft quickly schooled his expression into one of severe disapproval, with the promise - no, threat - of writing their parents clear in his eyes. Sherlock silently snorted. Yeah, right. Like he was scared of that. He didn't need Mycroft's approval, or his parents.

Applause began to fill the room, and Sherlock jumped with a start at the sudden onslaught of noise. The Gryffindor table had began to cheer. Cheer for him. Feeling an odd little spark of warmth in his gut, Sherlock slipped of the stool, sat the Hat down in his place, and stepped down to the scarlet-clad students. As he sat himself down on the bench next to the Muggleborn girl with the bushy hair, his robes took on red accents, and the school crest changed to the battle-ready lion. He was officially a Gryffindor Lion.

"You were up there for 37 minutes." The Muggleborn said in place of a greeting.

"Nice to meet you too." Sherlock said coolly, not even pretending to pay attention as "Hooper, Molly" stood from the floor and took her place on the stool.

"Oh! Sorry!" The girl blushed red. "I'm Hermione. Hermione Granger. Nice to meet you." She added sheepishly. She held out her hand.

Sherlock's lips quirked in amusement, and deciding to humor her, he took her hand and firmly shook it. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"If I may ask, what took you so long to Sorted?" Granger asked.

"You can ask."

"But you won't answer?" Instead of sounding annoyed, though, she actually sounded . . . Amused? At him?

"Nope. Obviously." Sherlock cast his eyes up to watch a "Lestrade, Greg" get sorted into Hufflepuff, and sit beside a tall boy that played Quidditch. Family friend, already promising a place on the team to the first year. The boy did have the right build for a Beater, so mostly likely that, or maybe Keeper.

"Gryffindor." Sherlock stated as an awkward boy known as "Longbottom, Neville" stumbled up to the Hat.

"What do you mean, Gry-" Granger began,

"GRYFFINDOR!" The Hat announced.

Granger turned wide eyes on him. "How did you know that?"

"I deduced. Ravenclaw." He labeled the next first year, a "MacDougal, Morag".

Sure enough, Morag was "RAVENCLAW!"

"Slytherin." Sherlock frowned at the platinum blond "Malfoy, Draco" that swaggered to the Hat. Not even a second later, the Hat sent Malfoy to Slytherin.

"Seriously, how are you doing that?" Granger pleaded, sounding quite peeved.

"I simply use these things called eyes and a brain." He brushed her off. "Slytherin." He pronounced a tall boy with crazy-filled eyes, known as "Moriarty, James."

"I have those things, but I don't see anything that would indicate their future house." Granger huffed as Moriarty skipped - literally skipped - to the Slytherin table.

"That is because you see, but do not observe. Now, please quit talking, you are growing quite annoying. Hufflepuff." He pronounced "Moon, Luke".

Next came "Nott, Theodore", "Parkinson, Pansy", "Patil, Padma" and "Patil, Pavarti", and "Perks, Sally-Anne". Each time, Sherlock named a House, and each time, the student went to Sherlock's predicted House.

Then came "Potter, Harry."

"Gryffindor." Sherlock whispered as the small boy nervously came forth. There was no way the famed Boy-Who-Lived could be anything else. It was obvious he was not welcome wherever he had been the last decade. Neglected at best and abused at worst. Yet he was here, and well-adjusted. A brave soul then. Plus, the fearful looks he shot at Slytherin table ruled them out. Not social enough to be Hufflepuff, with far too much potential. He did not seem the bookworm type or very intelligent, so Ravenclaw wasn't very likely.

And sure enough, Gryffindor gained Potter. And he sat right across from Sherlock.

"Hello." He shyly said as he sat down at the quieter end of the table.

"Hello again." Granger nodded.

"Hello." Sherlock drawled, fiddling with his wand under the table. He was quite attached to his wand. Sycamore with a phoenix feather core, and 12 4/5 inches long, it was like an extension of himself, and allowed him to perform greater feats of magic than ever before.

"Gryffindor, again. Boring." Sherlock said, turning his head to look at "Thomas, Dean."

"What?" Potter asked, puzzled.

"You'll see." Granger sighed.

"GRYFFINDOR!" The Hat shouted, to the applause of the Lions.

"How -"

"Don't ask. He won't tell you in any way that's clearer than mud." Granger interrupted in a prickly voice.

Potter looked curiously at Sherlock, but all Sherlock said was "Ravenclaw" as a girl called "Turpin, Lisa" was invited to be sorted. Of course, he was right.

"Watson, John." An unassuming boy stepped forward. Though he hide it quite well, he was a bit nervous. Muggleborn, but not the first in his family to come to Hogwarts, judging by the way he glanced the Hufflepuff table and smiled. Poor, judging by the shape of his trainers, but his uniform were new. Older sister then. If it was a brother, he would have received hand-me-downs. Either the father or mother (not both, considering lack of money) were military, given his straight posture. Played sports, but recently sprained his ankle going by the slight limp.

"Hmm, another Gryffindor. Though I suppose Hufflepuff could be an option, considering sibling's irrational ideas to stick together." Sherlock scoffed.

Potter and Granger looked at him with weird looks.

"Sibling?" Granger asked, but before Sherlock could point out how obvious it was -

"GRYFFINDOR!" This time, Sherlock clapped along as well, and to his eternal shock, Watson sat down beside of him.

"Hey!" He greeted with a huge grin. "John Watson!" He held his hand out for Sherlock to shake, and Sherlock, feeling a bit dazed at the abundance of cheer rolling off of Watson, complied.

"Right again." Granger rolled her eyes. "I wish you would tell me how -"

"Another Gryffindor, of course." Sherlock pointed up at "Weasley, Ronald". The Hat barely even touched the boy's ginger hair before declaring him a Gryffindor.

Potter applauded enthusiastically, and Weasley plopped right next to the green-eyed boy, a relieved smile on his face.

Watson looked up in awe at Sherlock. "How did you - "

"Slytherin." Sherlock judged the last first-year, "Zabini, Blaise", and watched as his deduction proved correct.

"That's incredible." Watson breathed.

Sherlock turned puzzled eyes on the smaller boy. "You think so?"

"Yeah." Watson smiled at him. Mercifully, this was when the Headmaster stood and allowed the feast to begin. Sherlock didn't have a clue on how to respond to a positive comment about his skill.

Watson, Potter, Granger, and Weasley all began to fill their plates with a variety of foods. Sherlock simply reached for his goblet of milk and sipped daintily at it.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Watson asked, concern obvious in his voice.

"Not hungry." Sherlock said flatly, hoping the boy would take the hint and leave him to his thoughts and his milk.

Alas, Watson did not. "It's not healthy to skip meals, and you look like you could use the extra nourishment."

Sherlock scowled. He didn't like people pointing out his eating habits. He didn't need food right now, and it was no one's business but his own. He decided to change the subject.

"Mother or father?" He asked.

"Excuse me?" Watson raised a confused eyebrow. Potter, Granger, and Weasley not so subtlety looked over to listen to the conversation.

"Which one is military? Your mother or your father?"

"My - my father."

"Mother unemployed then. Older sister in Hufflepuff, and the Hat considered putting you there. You live in England, just outside London. You are an athlete, and want to play Keeper of a Quidditch team because you play goalie in football, but you don't own a broom, so you're hoping to start next year, when you may have saved up enough money to buy a decent one because you've heard that school brooms are rubbish. You want to join the military like your father, but you also want to become both a Muggle doctor and a Healer. Oh, and you have a bulldog at home that you already miss dearly." Sherlock rattled off in an almost bored manner, using his finger to trace the rim of his goblet.

For 20 seconds, none of Sherlock's new acquaintances said a word. Then -

"How in the bloody -"

"Language." Sherlock chided.

"How in the Heck did you know all that about me?" Watson corrected himself.

"Easy. I looked at you, listened to your words, and deduced." Sherlock smirked.

Another long pause - Granger, Potter, and Weasley still seemed to be in shock - then Watson spoke again.

"That's amazing."

"You really think that?"

"Of course! I've never heard anything like that! You're incredible!" Watson gushed, another face-splitting grin cracking across his lips.

"That's not what people usually say." Sherlock muttered.

"What do they usually say?" Watson asked.

"'Shut up, freak'." Sherlock deadpanned.

"You're not a freak." Watson's grin disappeared, a frown that looked completely out of place somehow finding its way onto his expression.

"Thank you for your statement, but -"

"No, you're not. You're different, but in a good way. You're . . . . " Watson hesitated, searching for the right word. "Unique." He finally settled on.

Sherlock flushed. No one had ever referred to him that way. Around Mycroft, he was the stupid one, and around everyone else, he was a freak. He never liked being called a freak. It was a horrible, disgusting word, reserved usually for monsters.

"Th-thank you." Did he just _stutter_? "I am most certainly unique. I can not imagine being ordinary. Ordinary people are so dull; they bore me half to death. If I was ever ordinary . . . " He shivered.

A reluctant smile worked its way back to Watson, and Sherlock found that he preferred it that way.

"Does that mean I bore you?" The smile took on a wryly tinge.

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond with the usual "Of course you do." But he found he couldn't get the words out. Watson wasn't boring him. He should, being so easy to deduce, but wasn't, so far anyway. And he didn't see Sherlock the way anyone else did, which in itself was quite interesting.

"Actually, Watson, you seem to be an exception so far."

"John." Watson corrected.

Sherlock rolled the name around in his mind. John. A rather common name, but one that seemed to suit the boy sitting next to him. John. Sherlock tried it out in his mind, and decided he could live with calling the boy that.

"John." He agreed.

"And you are?" Sherlock blinked in surprise.

"I didn't catch your name earlier, I was kinda distracted." John admitted sheepishly.

Sherlock smiled. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

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**You know, in my original draft, I had the Sorting Hat spontaneously combusting. But I decided I liked this better. **

**Review, favorite, check out my profile! Thank you for reading!**

**-Blue**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello again. I know I said that the story was complete, but to my shock, I found myself writing another chapter. I have no clue whether or not I will continue to add more to this (though I'm thinking yes), but I have decided to post this.**

**Thank you to those who favorited, followed, and especially those who reviewed. This is my first Sherlock fic (though certainly not my last), and I was very happy to hear I had done a good job portraying the magnificent characters. I hope I have done so in this as well. **

**Enjoy!**

The Sorting of Sherlock Holmes – Part Two

_Sherlock smiled. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."_

John opened his mouth to say something, but Weasley beat him to the punch.

"Holmes?" He spoke through a mouthful of food. Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Like Mycroft Holmes, the Head Boy?" Weasley nodded his head in the direction of the Slytherin table.

"Unfortunately." Sherlock pursed his lips into a thin slit in irritation.

"He's, like, my brother Percy's hero." Weasley rolled his eyes.

Sherlock shared his sentiments. "Then your brother has extremely poor tastes in heroes as my brother is an insufferable prat more concerned with his career than anything or anyone around him. I shall try to avoid your brother, Weasley, as anyone who worships my brother is not someone I can respect on any level."

"It's Ron." Weasley attempted to correct.

"I'm sure he can't be that bad." Granger said over the ginger. Whether she was talking about Mycroft, the Weasley, or both, Sherlock didn't know nor care.

"Yes, he can, and I don't wish to talk about it anymore. John, tell us about your sister in Hufflepuff." Sherlock spat quickly before deflecting the attention to John.

"My sister? Er, she's a fourth year, her name's Harriet, but she goes by Harry." John snuck a look at Potter, but he didn't seem the least bit affected by this information. "She's a Beater for her Quidditch team, and she has a pet cat she took in a few years ago called Kitty."

"Kitty?" Sherlock could not think of a less imaginative name.

"She named the thing when she was 6." John shrugged. "Best she could come up with, I suppose."

"Do you have any siblings, Hermione?" Potter softly asked Granger.

Granger energetically shook her head, her bushy hair whipping around with it. "No, I'm an only child."

"Figures." Weasley muttered. Granger shot him a glare. Obviously a sign that the two had already managed to rub each other the wrong way during their previous encounter on the train. Weasley thought Granger was an annoying know-it-all, and Granger found Weasley rather rude and dim-witted.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock answered absently as he tried to deduce exactly what had happened on the train (Potter didn't seem to have any problems with either of them, but he did seem to gravitate more towards Weasley. So he and Weasley had sat together on the train, with Granger arriving on the scene later.).

"Eat something. We probably won't get anything else until breakfast, and it's not healthy to skip meals."

"So you've said." Sherlock barely held himself back from rolling his eyes. He _really _did not like people fussing about his eating habits.

"Sherlock, please just eat something. Even if it's only a couple pieces of bread."

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. "Fine. But only because I don't want you bothering me the rest of the night, trying to force food down my throat."

John met his harsh tone with a satisfied smile. "Good."

Reluctantly, Sherlock broke off a hunk of bread, and began to nibble on it as his gaze slid up to the staff table. He already knew a bit about the professors that sat above the students. Before Mycroft had stopped telling him things, he had told him all about the professors and what they taught.

Obviously, the man in the middle of the table was the Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore. He looked exactly as Mycroft had described him; half-moon glasses, colorful robes (tonight, they were purple), and long silver hair and beard. In a few words, the Muggle stereotype of a good wizard.

The very large man who had brought them across the lake to the castle sat at one end of the table. From his size and relatively minor position at the table, this had to be Hagrid, the groundskeeper.

At the other end of the table, an older man with a hideous scowl glared at the loudly chattering tables of students. A fluffy orange tabby sat at the mans side. Filch, the caretaker, and his cat Mrs. Norris, two of the beings in the castle that Mycroft had cautioned him to avoid at all costs. Sherlock smirked. He gave himself 72 hours until their first meeting.

Sherlock could not put a face to all the names he knew, but he was able to identify Professor Flitwick (Ravenclaw colors and easily the shortest figure at the table), Professor Binns (the only ghost at the table), Professor Snape (Greasy black hair, hooked nose, and black robes mostly likely warn to both intimidate and hide spilled potion ingredients), Professor Quirell (formerly the Muggle Studies teacher. but it appeared he had taken up the "cursed" Defense Against the Dark Arts post), and Professor Sprout (judging from the amount of dirt that was still coated on her sleeves). The rest he should learn in a couple of days.

The noise of the students suddenly rose sharply with surprise. Sherlock abandoned his study of the staff to see what had changed. On the tables, all of the supper was gone. Now, a wide spread of desserts laid in front of the students. Sherlock laid the half-eaten piece of bread on his plate, and it vanished. Most likely back to the kitchens.

A nudge against his stomach. John had elbowed him, Sherlock registered in slight surprise.

"I saw that, Sherlock. You have to eat some dessert now too." John said in an overly motherly tone of a voice.

"But I thought sweets were bad for you, Doctor?" Sherlock mocked, smirking slightly.

John smirked back. "You're so skinny, you could probably eat this entire table and still not be considered fat. And I mean it, Sherlock. Eat something more."

Sherlock cast his gaze across the expanse of the table, looking for something he thought he might be able to stomach. Finally, his eyes rested on a plate of biscuits on the other side of Potter. Back home, when he visited Mrs. Hudson, she would make him biscuits that Sherlock ate to please her. Over time, he had actually grown to like them, and looked forward to them when he dropped by the cottage in which the kind old lady lived.

"Potter, could you pass me that plate of biscuits?"

Potter did so. "You can call me Harry, you know."

Sherlock ignored him. He only called those he had felt earned it by their first name. So far, Potter had not. Despite the rumors that Sherlock had taken with a grain of salt, the Boy-Who-Lived seemed dreadfully ordinary (aside from the abuse and/or neglect the Wizarding Worlds savior had so obviously suffered), along with Weasley and Granger. Only John had managed to capture his interest, for some unfathomable reason. He was as easy to read as everyone else in this room, but he seemed . . . different, even though the majority of their conversation was about getting him to eat. It annoyed Sherlock to no end that he didn't know why, and he silently vowed to find out.

The biscuits, Sherlock decided, were not terrible. They didn't hold a candle to Mrs. Hudson's, but they were adequate. If John decided to continue with this "eating at every meal" campaign, at least Sherlock had found something he could force down.

"What about you, Sherlock?"

John's sudden question broke Sherlock out of his thoughtful haze. "Hmm?" He hummed questioningly, turning to look at John.

John smiled at him. "What subject are you most looking forward to starting?" Apparently, he and Granger had been having a discussion of the classes.

"All of them catch my interest, but I suppose I am most eager to begin Potions. I'm very interested in learning the properties of each of the ingredients, and why they make potions react the way they do. Once you learn that, the possibilities for new potions are endless. It'd be rather like muggle chemistry. They have the right idea there, with their science. They have learned why things do what they do and have figured out how to take advantage of that; that's why they are so much more advanced than us. Anyway, I have a whole list of questions for our professor."

"Good luck with that." Weasley butted in. "My brothers say that Snape hates Gryffindors."

"Or perhaps he just dislikes stupid people. Gryffindor does not exactly have a sparkling reputation in regards to the level of their overall intelligence." Sherlock believed Mycroft's exact words were "bravery is by far the kindest word for their sheer amount of bull-headed stupidity".

"Are you calling us stupid?" Weasley's eyes seemed close to popping out of their sockets with disbelief.

"The fact that you have to ask that should answer your question." Sherlock deadpanned.

John laughed, and it was the most unexpected sound ever. It startled a laugh out of Sherlock himself, and then they were laughing together. It felt . . . good. Right. Sherlock liked it.

"You do realize, mate, that you're a Gryffindor as well." John giggled.

"There's an exception to every rule." Sherlock smirked.

"And that would be you?"

"Of course." Sherlock smiled smugly, then, spotting the vaguely insulted expression of Granger's, Potter's, and Weasley' faces, sighed dramatically. "Look, it's not an insult, just a description. Nearly everyone is an idiot. Nothing personal to you or the rest of the Lions."

Ron looked like he wanted to argue the point - an action that would only further cement Sherlock's opinion of Gryffindors in general - but before he could, the ringing of a spoon against metal bounced off the walls of the hall. All heads swiveled to the staff table, where Professor Dumbledore had rose from his throne-like seat. Presumably, he was going to give them a _proper_ beginning-of-term speech, instead of a meaningless string of gibberish.

"Ahem." The ancient wizard cleared his throat before smiling kindly at the crowd. "Now that we are all fed and watered -"

"He makes us sound like horses." Sherlock whispered into John's ear. John bit his lip in a futile effort not to smile.

"- I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled knowingly as they came to rest on the Weasley twins. The two boys clasped their hands behind their backs and pretended to whistle innocently. No one bought it for a second, least of all Sherlock. He hid a smile. Now, these two Weasleys would definitely be worth getting to know.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors." Sherlock rolled his eyes. There was no way that that particular rule would ever be followed.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch." Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught a woman twitching slightly at the name of the Flying instructor. No doubt she was Madam Hooch. Sherlock filed the identification away for further reference, and made a note to figure out how to get on her good side. Never knew when he would want to borrow one of the school brooms, as he had not been allowed to bring his own. He was not the slightest bit interested in Quidditch, but he did enjoy a good fly. It was one of the best ways to escape from humanity back at home, and he had developed a love of it.

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

A few people scattered across the hall laughed, including Potter, but the majority buzzed in confused and concerned whispers.

"Is he serious?" John asked in a low voice.

"Seems so to me. Either that, or he is delusional." Sherlock answered him. "But the teachers are not correcting him, so that is unlikely. It would be wise, then, to steer clear of the forbidden corridor."

Though his words were calm and cautious, Sherlock's mind was whirling with this new information. "A most painful death"? What could be so important that deadly force would come upon trespassers? Especially in a _school_? Sherlock quickly gave each of the staff members a look over. Some of them had to be in on it. All of them looked semi-uncomfortable, but the one who fidgeted the most was Hagrid. So, he knew what was there. He was the groundskeeper. Why would he be entrusted with the knowledge?

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore, steering the focus away from the mystery of the third floor corridor. Sherlock noticed that the other teachers' smiles had become rather fixed, and felt a sense of foreboding creep upon him.

"Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!"

What followed next could only be described as the most horrendous racket of noise and screeching Sherlock had ever heard. The lyrics were appalling, the mish-mash of tunes made for a ghastly overall melody, and apparently _not one wizard_ could sing worth anything. When the song finally ended, with the Weasley twins finishing it up as they sang to the tune of a funeral march, Sherlock could only thank his lucky stars for sparing him any further agony.

"Ah, music," the Headmaster said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here!" Sherlock silently snorted. As if anyone could call that cacophony music. "And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

"Off we trot?" Sherlock repeated mockingly to John as they stood with the rest of the Gryffindor table. "He really does think we are horses." John full-out laughed this time, and Sherlock grinned with him.

"First years!" A Gryffindor prefect with flaming red hair - another Weasley, Percy no doubt - shouted at the red-clad mob. "First years, follow me!"

Loath as Sherlock was to follow instructions, he actually did wish to know where the Gryffindor common room - and his bed - were, so he and John stood behind Granger and followed her, and by extension Percy Weasley, out of the Great Hall and into the entrance hall. It was just as high and grand, being dominated by two giant wooden doors, and a large golden statue. The statue depicted a wise old wizard, who was accompanied by a lion, a snake, an eagle, and a badger. Representing the four founders and their goal, no doubt.

Weasley led them up a short flight of stairs into an enormous open area. Staircases stretched up the walls and across the area, going up as high as Sherlock could see. Even as he watched, some staircases began to move, shifting from one landing to another. Students were already climbing them with ease and familiarity, waiting patiently for the paths they needed to be formed.

"Whoa." John declared in an awed whisper.

"Keep an eye on the staircases." Weasley said to the 11-year-olds. "They like to change." Judging from his grin, the older boy was clearly amused at the dumbstruck expressions on most of the new students faces.

"It's only funny until someone falls and breaks their neck." Sherlock said in a not-as-low-as-he-thought voice.

Weasley's grin faltered as mutters ranging from worried to hysterical rippled through the crowd.

"Sherlock." John half-scolded, half-laughed.

"John?" Sherlock called back in a faux innocent voice.

"Moving on!" Weasley shouted. He waved for the first years to trail after him as he began to ascend the stairs. After a moments hesitation, some of the children decided to live up to their house's defining quality, and led the group after Weasley.

As they climbed up and up, the paintings openly gaped and gossiped about each of them. Some, noticing the Boy-Who-Lived was among their numbers, even proceeded to travel through the frames to stare at Potter. Potter, looking rather sluggish (no doubt because of all the food; one of the main reasons Sherlock didn't eat), barely took notice of this fact. He was not alone in this. Most of the group ignored the chattering figures; the ones who didn't were Muggleborns, and they simply marveled at the fact the paintings moved and talked. Sherlock found this interesting. The paintings saw all, yet no one seemed to see them. They would be perfect informants about the various happenings of the castle. He should look into that, perhaps form a spy network with them . . .

Suddenly, the procession came to a halt. Sherlock stood on his tiptoes and gazed over the heads of the other kids. What had they stopped for? There were no doors or paintings or anything that could serve as the entrance to the Gryffindor dorms. He soon spotted the answer.

A bundle of walking sticks was floating in midair ahead of them, and as Weasley took a step toward them, they started throwing themselves at him.

"Peeves, " Weasley whispered to the first years. "A poltergeist. " He raised his voice, "Peeves - show yourself" A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon, answered. "Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?"

There was a pop, and a little man with wicked, dark eyes and a wide grin (like the Cheshire Cat, Sherlock thought) appeared, floating cross-legged in the air, clutching the walking sticks. "Oooooooh!" he said, with an evil cackle. "Ickle Firsties! What fun!" He swooped suddenly at the new Gryffindors. They all ducked.

"Go away, Peeves, or the Baron will hear about this, I mean it!" barked Weasley. Peeves stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping the walking sticks on Longbottom's head. They heard him zooming away, rattling suits of armor as he passed.

"You want to watch out for Peeves, " said Weasley, as they set off again. "The Bloody Baron's the only one who can control him, he won't even listen to us prefects." Sherlock rolled his eyes at that last sentence. Clearly someone had a superiority complex regarding his position as a prefect.

"Here we are." Weasley finally declared as he stopped in front of a huge portrait. The subject was a rather fat lady, dressed in a silk dress that was a rather alarming shade of pink.

She looked coolly down her nose at the congregation. "Password?" She bellowed.

"Caput Draconis." Weasley answered, carefully to enunciate the phrase clearly. _Dragon's head, _Sherlock translated automatically in his head.

The woman smiled and winked at the red-head, and the portrait swung open to reveal a person-sized hole in the corridor wall. The group climbed through the hole in single-file, there being no room to go more than one at a time, and stepped into a large open room. The walls were covered with muted red and gold wallpaper, with different patterns on each section of wall. Cozy rugs plastered the floor. Tables were clustered on one half of the common room, while squashy armchairs and couches filled the other, surrounding a large open fireplace that bathed the room in soft warm light. Two staircases wound up out of the room, and this was where Weasley led them now.

Weasley directed the boys to one staircase, the girls up another. Sherlock followed behind John, Potter, Ron Weasley, Longbottom, Thomas, and Finnigan, as the 11-year-old boys made their way up the winding staircase. They passed several doors before they finally came to one marked "First-Years" in bold golden letters. Opening it, they found themselves in a reasonably large circular room. Seven four-poster beds (with curtains that were, in Sherlock's opinion, an ugly shade of scarlet) were situated around a boiler that was filled with stovewood and had an open flame crackling flame crackling merrily.

Trunks were already placed at the foot of each bed, ruling out any quarrels over who got which bed. Sherlock wasn't complaining. He felt that he had gotten a good deal in regards to his placement. He had gotten the bed closest to the door with only one bed next to his, which had been given to John. It was also not too close to a window, while not too close to the heater. All in all, the best bed in the room.

Grabbing his pajamas and a book out of his trunk, Sherlock climbed behind the red curtains and changed. He folded his robes neatly on top of his trunk, deciding to wear them tomorrow as he had only worn them for dinner that day, and opened his book for a bit of reading before bed.

Most of his new roommates simply went to bed, not even bothering to turn down any of the oil lamps that lit the chamber. Besides Sherlock, only John and Longbottom remained up. Both of them took out parchment and writing utensils (a quill in Longbottom's case, a Muggle pen in John's) and began to write the beginnings of letters to their family's about their House placements.

Longbottom finished first, and had the courtesy to dim his lamp before closing his curtains and beginning to snore. John stayed up a while longer, writing furiously to his parents back home. Sherlock observed the blond boy out of the corner of his eye, wondering what exactly the boy already had so much to write about. Sherlock knew that he most likely wouldn't speak a voluntary word to his own parents in months. They would not be pleased to learn he had been Sorted into Gryffindor, champion of the Muggleborns.

His family was an ancient pure-blood family, and clung tight to the old beliefs of Salazar Slytherin and Voldemort. Sherlock himself did not. Sure, back in the 980's, it may have been a good idea to be careful about just who they let into the school. Wizards and witches were burned at the stake by Muggles back then. Caution towards those from Muggle families was certainly warranted. But these beliefs came from an era that was outdated. Now, most Muggles did not even know they existed, and those who did had not reacted especially hostile towards them. It was time to discard these ideas for more updated thoughts. As for pure-bloods being more powerful than Muggleborns, there was absolutely no basis for it. Surface logic may have approved, but delve a little deeper with experience, and the entire theory fell apart.

Sherlock did not judge by heritage or stereotypes. He preferred to make his own conclusions based on his own observations. Anything else was open to false impressions and assumptions.

"Ready for bed, Sherlock?" A hushed voice called out.

Sherlock blinked, then turned to the source, one John Watson. The parchment was gone, and John was half-under his covers, clearly ready to retire for the night.

"Yes, one moment." Sherlock placed his book on top of his trunk, and quickly scampered across the room, dimming the lamps. He did not like sleeping with light sources. He slid soundlessly under his own covers, and gathered the sheets around him tightly before dimming his own lamp.

He snuggled down into the soft mattress, and was about to close the curtains when -

"Goodnight, Sherlock. Sleep tight."

Sherlock paused. It had been a long time since someone had wished him a good night. His parents had never been the warm, fuzzy types, and had not tucked him in since he was six. Mycroft had stopped when he was 9.

Why was John being so kind to him? They had barely known each other for an hour, and he knew absolutely nothing about Sherlock. Yet John treated him with kind words, laughing at his jokes, praising his deductive powers. No one had ever done that before. They had always regarded him as a - a freak. What was it that made John so different? What did John see in him that made him act so kind? Or rather, what didn't he see?

It wouldn't last, surely, the nice attitude. Soon, John would make friends, and forget all about him. But until he did, Sherlock decided to enjoy the unusual kindness of the small Muggleborn.

"Goodnight John." Sherlock's lips quirked upwards before he shut his curtains, curled up in his new bed, and began to drift to sleep.

**Hi, me again! Thank you for reading! Please fav or follow if you have not already and enjoyed this, and leave a review! I very much enjoy hearing what people think of my writing; it helps me get better and motivated!**

**(Also, it was my birthday last week . . . )**

**Thanks once again, and have a marvelous day/night!**

**-Blue**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, guess what? I've written a third part! And guess what else? There's already a fourth in the works! I thought that everything I wanted to add to this would be far too long for one chapter by the next time I came to a nice stopping point, so I cut it off and started a fourth chapter. So you have that to look forwards to.**

**Thank you to all my followers, favorite-ers, and reviewers. every time my phone beeps with a notification, my day gets a little brighter.**

**Enjoy!**

The Sorting of Sherlock Holmes - Part Three

Sherlock had always been an early riser. Sleep was like food to Sherlock; an unfortunately necessary action to keep his body going, but not something to waste time that could be spent doing something more productive on. Therefore, it wasn't unusual to find himself waking up at 5:30 AM the next morning, over three hours before classes started, despite the late night.

The dormitory room was peaceful, with just the barest hint of light glowing at the edge of the windows. Comfortable silence, penetrated only by Longbottom's snores, was draped over the slumbering boy's, something Sherlock deduced would not last for long. He would have to get used to the fact he was now living with hundreds of other people, six of them sleeping in the same room as him. Moments of quiet like this one would be far and few throughout the day. Unless, of course, he found a place he could disappear to to escape the mind-numbingly dull masses.

_Time to go exploring_, Sherlock thought with a thrill of excitement. Back home, he had warded off boredom by exploring the enormous manor that he lived in and the sprawling grounds that surrounded it. He knew the house better than anyone; where the secret rooms and passages were, how to avoid being heard traveling through the halls, and how to spy on someone without being seen. The thought of having somewhere brand new to explore - a _castle_, no less - sent spikes of adrenaline racing across his skin.

Tiptoeing silently out of bed, Sherlock grabbed his robes and quickly changed, careful not to make any noise that could wake the other boys. The last thing he wanted was for any of them to try to tag along.

Finally, he was dressed, and snatching his wand out from a concealed drawer he had installed in his trunk and pulling on a pair of Muggle sneakers, he snuck out of the first-year room (He had bought the sneakers last year from a half-blood that lived in the town a mile away from the Holmes estate. Sherlock found they were far more comfortable than his usual shoes when he ran, and one could be silent in them, two very appealing qualities that he had exploited many times.).

Sherlock treaded lightly down the spiral staircase. No one else seemed to be awake, if the utter silence and lack of significantly bright lights in Gryffindor Tower were any indicator. Made sense. It the first day back, after an all-day ride on a train. No tests to cram for, no homework to hurry to complete. Absolutely no reason to wake up early, and every reason to sleep in.

The common room was deserted as well. Not even Prefect Percy was haunting the cozy room. With no one there, this would be the perfect time to examine the large meeting area.

Sherlock started by the fireplace. The gray brick's rough edges had been worn smooth by time, with faint scratches spelling out names, dates, and the initials of couples. One of these sets, Sherlock observed, had been quite violently chiseled out, with an impressive string of explicit insults taking its place.

Next, Sherlock examined the walls, Upon closer inspection of the seemingly random golden patterns on the scarlet wallpaper, he found the names of current and former Gryffindors written into the swirls of gold, with small symbols and dates that Sherlock assumed represented accomplishments and graduation dates.***** Thin glowing strings connected certain names, so that entire family trees were present on the walls. Realizing this, Sherlock searched furiously for his own. He found it eventually, half-hidden behind one of the armchairs in an inconspicuous alcove. Curiously enough, John Watson's name was positioned right next to his, and both of the names were connected to a single name each.

John was connected to a Gryffindor who had graduated in the 1940's. Likely this meant that he was descended from a Squib born to the wizard, or one of their children. Sherlock wondered if all Muggleborn were, and their sudden ability to wield magic was simply the expression of homozygous recessive genes. The theory made sense; he would have to do some research.

Sherlock's name was connected to one "Sirius Black". A tenuous connection at best; if Sherlock remembered his genealogy correctly, he was merely a second cousin. He was also the convicted murderer of 12 Muggles and a wizard, traitor to the light, and supposed right-hand man to Voldemort. Sherlock snorted to himself. The incompetency of the Ministry truly was astounding. There was absolutely no conclusive evidence that Black was even a Voldemort supporter, let alone his "right-hand man". The evidence of him murdering those people was flimsy at best, and Black had not even received a trial. Sirius Black was almost certainly falsely imprisoned. One day, Sherlock thought, he should do something about that.

After one more round around the common room, Sherlock decided he was done with it for the day. There were far more interesting places to investigate at the moment, and he could further inspect the common room at any time with no risk.

He crawled into the portrait hole, and after tapping the back of the canvas, was released into the corridor.

"Well, aren't you an early riser?" The Fat Lady yawned.

"I am. I dare say you shall see quite a bit of me at this time." Sherlock told her.

"Splendid." The portrait grumbled.

Sherlock ignored this last comment, and instead started to creep down the hall underneath the dim torches.

The castle he was in was absolutely huge. Even if he did nothing else, it would take weeks to even begin to explore all of the various corridors, rooms, and odds and ends. Even then, it could be months before he would discover the deeper secrets of the castle. He had best approach this task in a systematic manner, logically starting in the dungeon levels and working his -

"There you are, brother." An unexpected and unwelcome voice called out of the gloom. Into the light of the nearest torch stepped Mycroft.

Sherlock scowled. "What are you doing here?" A pointless question since he, of course, already knew the answer.

"Why, waiting for you. One advantage of being Head Boy; you can be out and about the castle at all hours of the night without anyone questioning you."

"I'm flattered you gave up your beauty sleep for me when you so clearly need it." Sherlock sneered.

"Lowering yourself to petty insults now, Sherlock?" Mycroft raised a disapproving eyebrow. "I see Gryffindor has already made an impression on you."

"What do you want, Mycroft?" For he obviously wanted something. He wouldn't be lurking around the Gryffindor dorms for hours just to say hello.

"Why do you think I want something? Can't I just wish to talk with my little brother?"

"You had all summer to seek me out for a chat. Forgive me if I'm skeptical." Sherlock's voice oozed with sarcasm.

"You got sorted into Gryffindor." All posh playfulness was gone, Mycroft's voice now as hard and sharp as stone.

"No? _Really_? I hadn't noticed." Sherlock pretended to gasp.

"What are Mummy and Father going to say?"

"I honestly couldn't care less. And what do you want me to say? It's not like I chose Gryffindor." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Didn't you? You were up upon that stool for quite awhile, little brother."

"You really think that I would choose Gryffindor if I could? You really don't know me, Mycroft." Sherlock shook his head in mock shame. Internally, though, he felt a twinge of hurt. Did Mycroft not even know the basics about him? "My preference was Ravenclaw. I told the Hat that, but it came off spouting some psychobabble about me being complex and embodying traits of all the Houses - "

"Wait, _all_ of the Houses?" Mycroft interrupted in disbelief.

"Yes, Mycroft, do keep up." Sherlock snapped with great relish. Too many times in the past, Mycroft had used that phrase when Sherlock hadn't been as quick on the uptake as Mycroft.

"Then the Hat said some rubbish about needing friends that I wouldn't find in Ravenclaw, and stuck me in Gryffindor."

"You honestly expect me to believe that?"

"I'm in Gryffindor, aren't I?" Sherlock plucked at the red accents on his robes.

"Why not Slytherin? What reasons did the Hat have for not putting you there?"

Sherlock snorted. "One, I have no ambition for power. Two, I'm not nearly tolerant enough of political games. Three, the Hat wanted Hogwarts to still be standing once I've graduated. And four, I refused."

"Sherlock -" Mycroft began to threaten.

"Mycroft, there was no bloody way I was ever going to be a Slytherin. I may not have chosen Gryffindor, but I definitely chose not to be Slytherin. The House is a farce, a laughable mockery of what it once stood for. Slytherin is supposed to be home to the cunning, but now anyone who's a pure-blood supremacist or stupid enough to support them gets dumped in there on the assumption that Slytherin is evil, only furthering to enhance that stereotype. It's pathetic, and just the thought of those kinds of scum turns my stomach." ******

"Watch your tongue, little brother." The acid in Mycroft's voice was practically dripping off his words. Any sane, rational person would have backed down. But this was Sherlock Holmes, who had decided to live up to his House's reputation by being almost stupidly brave.

"Oh, sorry, it seems I've insulted both you and both our parents. My _deepest_ apologies." Sherlock spat mockingly.

"You're treading a very dangerous path, Sherlock." Mycroft warned. "The last time a pure-blood of our status was sorted into Gryffindor -"

"He was falsely imprisoned in Azkaban, yes, I remember. But rest assured, big brother, that will not happen to me."

"I'm sure that's what dear cousin Sirius thought."

"Sirius was an idiot. I am not." Sherlock said as if that settled everything.

"I wouldn't rely on your intelligence. You forget that I am even smarter than you."

"And even with that, you can't make me a Slytherin." Sherlock taunted. "Now, goodbye." He brushed passed Mycroft, making sure to keep his head held high. He half-expected Mycroft to try to stop him by grabbing his arms. He definitely expected some scathing parting remark. But all Mycroft did was stare after him with a disappointed expression.

Which, Sherlock reluctantly admitted to himself, spoke volumes on its own.

* * *

Sherlock trudged up the stairs, feet resisting to move every step of the way. He didn't want to go to the Great Hall. He had an hour left before class started; a glorious hour he could spend continuing to explore the dungeons. He wasn't at all hungry for any sort of breakfast, and he knew the minute he got within view of the Gryffindor table, John would wave him down and pester him into eating.

Unfortunately, breakfast was when schedules for the week were passed out. Once he got it, he wouldn't have to come back until next Monday, but for him to get it, he'd have to brave the populace this morning.

Sherlock tried not to attract attention to himself as he slunk into the raucous hall. His eyes skimmed the Gryffindor table, and soon came to rest on John. The shorter boy was chatting animatedly with Potter, and Sherlock felt a strange sort of ache in his gut, like his stomach had decided to go take a holiday and leave him hollow. It was a very irrational feeling that Sherlock vaguely associated with loneliness. He scolded himself for thinking something so stupid. He had known John would forget about him, and at least now he wouldn't have to deal with the medically-inclined boy insisting he eat.

Then John looked up from his talk with Potter, and his eyes met Sherlock's. He smiled, a sincere beaming grin reminiscent of the one he had given Sherlock at the Welcome Feast, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile slightly in return. John waved at him, and patted the empty section of seat beside him.

Sherlock got rid of the smile as he went to accept John's invitation, but he let the warm glow that felt like inclusion that had filled the hole in his gut remain.

"Where have you been?" John questioned as Sherlock swung his legs under the table. "You weren't there when I woke up, and that was almost an hour ago."

"Exploring. If you haven't noticed, John, we are currently living in a 1000-year-old magical castle." Sherlock said as he reached for a sugar bowl. Dropping three cubes into the warm tea sitting on a saucer beside him, Sherlock took a deep sip and hummed appreciatively.

"Is that why your robes are covered in dust and cobwebs?" John remarked, brushing the gray-coated sleeve of Sherlock's robe.

"Yes. I stumbled upon a passageway in the dungeons that was absolutely filthy. Filch must have forgotten about it; it looked it hadn't been touched since Dumbledore was a student." Sherlock smacked at the dust that clung annoyingly to the hems of his robes.

"Why on earth would you explore the dungeons?" John asked.

"Because hardly anyone does. If there are any good secrets to be found - which in a castle like this there are - a good deal of the undiscovered ones should be found in the dungeons."

"That makes sense." Potter commented from across the table.

"Find any secrets, then? Besides a dusty passageway?" John took a sip of his tea.

"Just a secret entrance into the Slytherin common room." Sherlock deadpanned.

John spat the tea back into the cup in shock, coughing slightly.

"Breathe, John." Sherlock thumped the blond boy on the back.

"You found a _secret entrance? _Into the _Slytherin common room_? On your first day?" John coughed, flabbergasted.

"Well, the snake carvings on the floor by the entrance made it obvious." Sherlock dismissed.

"Still . . . " John muttered.

"I suspect Slytherin had it built in case of seize. It wouldn't do for the Slytherin students to be trapped in the dungeons if invaders stormed the castle. In that case, the passage would serve as an escape route. In_ my_ case, though, I may have to use it to leave some surprises for my _dear_ brother." Sherlock smirked while John chuckled good-naturedly. *****

A whooshing noise overhead began to drown out the roar of the students. The pounding of wing beats filled every corner of the Hall. Sherlock looked up.

"Mail's here." He commented nonchalantly, amused by the looks of amazement on Potter's and John's faces.

Sherlock scanned the flock of owls who circled above them. Spotting a flash of red among the brown, white, and black, he gave a 4-note whistle that sharply pierced the air.

John glanced at him in confusion, but Sherlock only smiled as the red blur started to dive towards him. The owl slowed his descent, and landed neatly in front of the curly haired boy.

"Good boy, Redbeard. Clever boy." He praised the reddish owl, stroking his feathers softly.

"Oh, is he your owl?" John asked.

"Obviously." Sherlock answered. "He's a Madagascar Red Owl, and he's quite intelligent. Aren't you, Redbeard?"

Redbeard gave an agreeing hoot, and Sherlock smiled.

"May I pet him?" John asked.

"If he lets you. He doesn't usually like strangers, though." Sherlock cautioned.

John plucked off a piece of bacon from his plate, and held it out to Redbeard. Redbeard stared at it a moment before leaning forward and snapping if off John's open palm. The bacon was gone in an instant, and Redbeard made no attempt to stop John as the blond boy lightly bushed his fingers across Redbeard's plumage.

"Seems to like bacon pretty well, though." John grinned.

"You have a letter, Sherlock." Potter pointed out as he stroked his own owl, a snowy white that was currently feasting on Potter's sausage.

Sherlock grimaced. He had been trying to ignore the small scroll of parchment bound to Redbeard's leg. The missive from his parent's was the last thing he wanted to be reading.

John frowned sympathetically. "Your parents that bad?"

"Let us just say that they embody the stereotype of Slytherins here, and expect me to do the same."

Potter and John winced. It appeared both of them had already had encounters with the type of people Sherlock was referring to.

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. "I highly doubt they will be particularly glad to hear that I have been Sorted into Gryffindor."

"Burn the note. Don't respond. Lie. You're a genius, you could convince them you were Sorted into Ravenclaw." John rattled off potential solutions.

"You forget, I've got Big Brother watching me, who's also the biggest snake in the pit." The quirk of John's lips assured Sherlock that he had gotten the Muggle literature reference.

Sherlock sighed. "No, I'll tell them the truth. I've always been a black sheep; this will simply confirm it. I may have to suffer through months of awkwardness when I go home for the summer, though."

Redbeard dutifully held out his leg with the scroll, and Sherlock unbounded it with care. _May as well get it over with_, he thought. He unrolled the parchment and read:

_Dear Sherlock,_

_As promised, we have sent Redbeard to act as your owl at Hogwarts. He did not seem to like the delay, but was as happy to be reunited with you as we're sure you are_

_We are eager to hear where you have been Sorted, and await your reply._

_Sincerely, _

_Mother and Father_

"May I borrow a quill and some ink?" Sherlock requested.

John shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, I left my bag in the dorm. Figured I would grab my stuff when I knew what the classes today are."

"You can borrow mine." Potter said, pulling out from beneath the table a quill and inkwell. "I wanted to be prepared to head straight to any class." He explained sheepishly as he slid them across the table to Sherlock.

"Oh. Thank you." Sherlock unscrewed the lid off of the inkwell and dipped the quill. Flipping the parchment over, he began to pen his reply.

_Dear Mother and Father, _

_Thank you for sending Redbeard. He is a welcome sight this morning. _

_I have been Sorted into Gryffindor of all places. Please do not feel the need to lecture me, as the future Ministry of Magic has already deigned to do so._

_Sincerely,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

Sherlock wrote the names of his parents at the top of the parchment, then held it out to Redbeard. "Just drop this off at the kitchen table. Do not stay to take any replies. Okay?" He told the owl.

Redbeard hooted in understanding, and after pilfering another piece of bacon from John's breakfast ("Hey!"), clamped his beak on the edge of the parchment and took off.

"Don't want any more letters?" John asked in reference of his parting instructions to Redbeard.

"I don't want any Howlers sent via Redbeard. They could go off before they reach me and hurt him."

"Howlers?" John and Potter asked in union.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Letters that scream at you, of course. If you ignore them, though, they burst into flames and yell three times as loud."

Professor McGonagall came sweeping down the row, interrupting any further inquiries about this particular method of communication. "First-year schedules." She explained as she sat four sheets of parchment in front of the small group of students.

"Four? But there are only -" John's correction became unnecessary as a panting Ronald Weasley dropped into the space next to Potter.

McGonagall chose not to say anything more, and continued on.

"Where have you been? You were only a couple minutes behind me." Potter asked.

"Got lost." Weasley huffed, eyes lighting up at the spread of food before him.

"Ah, finally. Schedules." Sherlock pulled a copy towards him and began to examine it. First class today, Transfiguration at 9:00, then break, then Herbology, then lunch, then History of Magic until dinner. The next few days were plotted out in a similar manner of blocks and double periods, including a midnight class on Wednesday for Astronomy.

"And now I can leave this miserable hall." Sherlock made to rise, but a surprisingly strong grip that wound around his forearm stopped him.

"Sherlock . . . " John threatened lowly.

"John . . . " Sherlock echoed John's tone.

"You didn't eat hardly anything last night. You are not going to skip breakfast as well."

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care. It's not healthy, and I don't want to see you collapse because you're stubborn." A strange look floated onto John's face. "You're . . . not anorexic, are you?"

"No, I am not." Sherlock snarled, futilely trying to pull away from the shorter but stronger boy. His eyes darted sideways to Potter and Weasley. Potter's gaze immediately flew back to his breakfast, ashamed, but Weasley kept right on staring at the morning drama. Other than them, though, no one else seemed to have noticed.

Fuming, Sherlock sat back down, not wanting that to change.

"John. Watson. Let. Me. Go."

"Not until you eat something. I don't care how long it takes." John said calmly.

Sherlock bit down furiously on the inside of his lip. _He means well, don't insult him_, he tried to tell himself.

He failed.

"Let go of me, you wannabe healer! Digesting food slows my thought process down. I won't become as stupid as you lot because you want to prove yourself a good doctor." Sherlock snapped.

Surprisingly, the insults didn't seem to faze John. "I seriously doubt a couple slices of toast will slow you down. If you're as smart as you say, then you know that your body needs food to function properly." He dumped said breakfast item on Sherlock's plate.

"I'll eat at lunch."

"And I'll hold you to that, but you still need to eat. The sooner you do that, the sooner we can go to class. Your choice."

Sherlock scowled, giving the dirtiest look he could muster. John met it with an unamused blank stare.

"Fine." He spat, ignoring the cheerful grin that instantly appeared on John's face. In one fail swoop, he nabbed the toast slices and jammed them into his mouth, chewing at hyper speed.

"Sherlock, you're gonna choke." John chided. Unable to respond verbally, Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.

A minute later, when Sherlock had washed down the last of the toast with a swig of lukewarm tea, John finally released his arm.

"Thank you." Sherlock said as he rubbed circulation back into his arm. "Now, off to Transfiguration." He paused. "If you want to come with me, of course."

"Oh, God yes." John rose from the Gryffindor table. "If I go alone, I'll end up getting hopelessly lost." He joked.

Sherlock's lips twitched upwards as he happily left the table. "Then come along." He strode purposefully down the aisle, his robes billowing out behind him, and John had to walk quickly to keep up with him.

* * *

It was quite easy for Sherlock to find the Transfiguration classroom after a quick pit stop at Gryffindor Tower to collect their bags, navigating the twists and turns of the castle confidently and getting John and himself to class a good half hour early.

Upon entering, the two boys found the large room deserted of occupants, save a tabby cat sitting stiffly on top of the desk at the front.

"Huh, I would have thought that the professor would have been here already." John said as he sat his school bag at a desk in the front of the room.

"She is." Sherlock stated, placing his own things beside John's.

"Is she invisible, then?" John half-smiled. "Of course _you_ would be able to guess where an invisible person was."

"I never guess, I know." Sherlock corrected, slightly miffed. "And she is not invisible. I can see her plain as day."

Confidently, Sherlock walked up to the teacher's desk, locking eyes with the tabby resting on it. The tabby's tail twitched.

"Good morning, Professor McGonagall. Are we going to learn how to become Animagus's in this class?"

"Sherlock, that's a cat." John sounded slightly confused about why Sherlock was talking to a cat like it was their Transfiguration professor.

Sherlock grinned as both he and the cat craned their necks to look at John. "The first thing you need to learn about the Wizarding World, John, is that nothing is as it seems."

Almost on cue, the cat leaped forward off the desk. But in mid-air, it ceased to be a cat. It morphed, growing and changing shape until it was a woman clad in muted scarlet robes that landed on the stone floor.

"Blimey . . ." John muttered, a hand rising to his forehead, eyes bulging in disbelief. "How . . . ?"

"I am what is called an Animagus, Mr. Watson." Professor McGonagall explained. "An Animagus is a witch or wizard who has learned how to take the form of an animal at will. Every person's Animagus is different. As you saw, mine is a cat."

She switched focus to Sherlock. "And I'm curious to know, Mr. Holmes, how you knew it was me."

"The markings around the cat's eyes are the same shape as your glasses." He explained.

"Very observant. And to answer your earlier question, only a select few of my NEWT students, those who I feel have the talent and mind for it, will learn how to become Animagus's, if they wish to."

"Hmm. Interesting." Sherlock hummed. "Is it possible to learn outside of Hogwarts?"

McGonagall did not answer immediately, looking over him through narrowed eyes. Eventually, she informed him. "It is, but learning without a mentor to guide you through the process of transforming is extremely inadvisable, and of course, all Animagus's must register with the Ministry."

_Well, that sounds tedious,_ Sherlock mentally groaned. He didn't want to wait until he was 17 to start learning how to change his form, and it _certainly_ wasn't any of the government's business what he could do. It was just one of those pesky law things to prevent paperwork about the misuse of an Animagus form. It seemed he would have to start learning on his own if he wanted to achieve Animagus status before he was of age.

But he knew better than to say any of that aloud. "Thank you, Professor, for satisfying my curiosity." McGonagall nodded sharply, and he went back to the desk he and John had claimed, John half a step behind him, shooting looks at Professor McGonagall over his shoulder every few seconds.

"So," John said to him as they took their seats. "What do we do until class starts?"

Sherlock shrugged as he pulled the book he had been reading last night out of his bag. "Well, I'll be reading."

"_The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_." John read off the cover. "Any good?"

"Completely biased towards the victors, giving almost no insight to the views of the so called "Dark Arts", yet the closest thing to an impartial account I can find in the public sections of Flourish and Blotts."

"Oh." For a moment, John seemed stumped at what to say to that statement. Sherlock ran through what he had said, and internally cringed. He couldn't have sounded more subtly pro-Dark Arts if he had tried.

"Why are you looking for an impartial account?" Sherlock blinked. That wasn't the cold brush-off he had been expecting.

"History is written by the victors. We hardly ever get an account into the motives behind the opposite. It's completely possible that some of the Wizarding Wars were won by the wrong side. Take some of the goblin rebellions. Upon a closer examination, the entire war was over goblins wanting more rights as sentient beings, rights that wizards completely denied them, and still do. It's comparable to the American Muggle Revolutionary War. Wizards were in the wrong, but we won, and the future generations are still being taught that anything not completely human are inferior to us." Sherlock discussed, his voice starting to get hoarse from talking so long.

He swallowed. "Therefore, I have learned not to trust the victors account of history, as it's full of prejudices. I find it better to make my own deductions."

"Hmm . . . " John hummed thoughtfully. Not, to Sherlock's relief, angry or confused. "You have a good point, mate." He smiled.

Sherlock mirrored the action. He had never been praised for wanting to throw away the traditional ideas and actually think for himself. One of the main grievances he held against normal people - they could never just think. They just blindly accepted the general thoughts of society without ever questioning it. They were such idiots!

But John, he had asked why. Attempted to understand Sherlock's reasons.

John was different from the idiotic masses. He wasn't boring either. And as annoying as he was about food, Sherlock thought that maybe he would like having John around.

*** I made these features of the common rooms up completely. **

**** Okay, I absolutely hate how the once amazing House of Slytherin have turned into the House of Evil. Being Slytherin is supposed to mean you're cunning and ambitious. Now, thanks to the recent Dark Lords Grindelwald and Voldemort, it's a convenient place to stick all the pureblood jerks. Not every villain is a Slytherin, and not every Slytherin is a villain. As a Slytherin myself, I'm disgusted by the stereotyping, so this is as much my rant as it is Sherlock's.**

**Hope you enjoyed this! Please review, fav, and/or follow if you liked this! If there's anyone/anything you want to happen in any future chapters, let me know! As this is an unplanned fic, I'm open to suggestions.**

**Have a nice day/afternoon/night!**

**-Blue**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello! Thank you all so much for your feedback! I have over 60 favs, unheard of for me for such a short fic in such a short time. I would have had this up sooner, but I've had AP testing and EOC's to study for.**

**This is definitely going to be continued, though for how long I'm not sure. Depends on how much inspiration I can squeeze out of my muse. Enjoy, though!**

The Sorting of Sherlock Holmes - Part Four

20 minutes later, the majority of the class had drifted in, and Professor McGonagall began. After a good half hour of note-taking on the art of Transfiguration (there was far more to it than waving your wand and saying funny words), McGonagall set them the task of turning matches (which she conjured from thin air) into needles.

Sherlock did not start immediately, instead casting his gaze over the rest of the class to see if any of them would be able to complete the task. It's not like it was difficult. This was basic magic! Most, if not all, of the students there had probably done more complex magic accidently.

But alas, it seemed that no one in the room could transfigure the match on their first try.

"Are you even going to try, Sherlock?" John asked, sounding a little more than exasperated that nothing had yet come of his labors. The shorter boy waved his wand across the match for the umpteenth time, barking out the incantation. The match seemed to get a little more pointed as it gave a half-hearted wiggle, but it remained very much a match.

Sherlock drew his own wand. With a flick of his wrist and a monotone articulation of the spell, the match quivered, then narrowed out, turning silver and ending in a razor sharp point.

"Simple and boring." Sherlock sighed as John ogled at the match-turned-needle.

"How do you do that?"

"It's all a matter of visualization and intent. That's all magic really is, the focusing of willpower and exerting it in a way that translates physically."

"So . . . "

"_So_, you need to concentrate on what you want to happen. If you're just waving your wand about muttering words, you won't get anywhere. You have to focus on a visualization of the match turning into a needle."

"Hmm." John pondered over his explanation. Biting his lip in an expression of concentration, he waved his wand. The match quivered, and consented to turning a shiny shade of silver. It remained wooden, but John still grinned at getting this much done. A few more attempts at casting the spell later, John successfully transfigured the match fully into a needle.

"Yes!" He said/cheered.

"Very nice, John. You've proven yourself marginally smarter than the rest of this class." Sherlock had already transfigured his needle back into a match, and was now seeing how fast he could transfigure it back and forth. Currently, the match/needle changed forms every five seconds, and he was hoping to get it down to three.

McGonagall had now risen from her desk, and began to circle the room, criticizing techniques and giving small hints to the few students that were on the brink of success. She came to a stop in front of John and Sherlock, the latter of which had stopped transfiguring with the match/needle in needle form.

"Well done, Mr. Watson, Mr. Holmes. I don't believe I've had a student that's completed this assignment so quickly their first time around." The slight chatter of the other students died down as they heard the professors praise.

"Sherlock helped me." John admitted.

"Well. Five points to Gryffindor, each."

Then McGonagall moved on, the rumbling of voices returned, and Sherlock went back to passing the time by experimenting with the needle. This time, instead of testing his speed, he tried to change just the material, or just the color. A partial transfiguration, if you will.

By the end of class, a rubber needle sat in front of him, shining a particularly vivid shade of purple in the pale sunlight that snuck in the large windows. A quick swish of his wand as the clanging a brass bell shook the stone walls with echoes, and an ordinary match laid innocuously on the pocket-marked desk for the next student to practice on.

Out of the entire Gryffindor first-year class, only John, himself, and Granger had managed to completely transfigure the match. The majority of the others had made some progress, a handful not making any at all. Privately, Sherlock was disappointed, but not surprised. Granger, though, she had some potential. She knew how to listen to instructions and retain information, at least, which was more than Sherlock could say for most people.

Sherlock took a different route upon exiting Transfiguration, following the smell of dew to the courtyard. Singles and pairs of students were trickling in and out already, snatching up spots on the stone benches scattered across the damp grass. No one had yet taken the bench tucked under the lone tree, and Sherlock was quick to claim it as his own by dropping his bag on it with a firm thud, and perching crookedly on the edge. He stretched his legs gratefully, wiggling out the slight cramp in them from being motionless for so long.

Autumn was clear in the weather, a crisp kind of chill that always made Sherlock think he could take a bite out of the air. The scent of rain hung over the Scottish-based castle, and the gray shade of the sky - that light, yet dull color that results from a well-mixed combination of clouds and sunlight - confirmed the likelihood of precipitation soon.

The slight tremor of his bench alerted Sherlock to the presence of someone else. Glancing to his right, he wasn't at all surprised to see John, who was once again grinning.

"What are you so happy about?" Sherlock inquired as he absently twirled his wand between his fingers.

"If you haven't noticed, Sherlock, we're currently living in a 1000-year-old magical castle." The cheek in John's voice as he threw Sherlock's own words back at him was louder than the class bells, and Sherlock quirked his lips in a half-smirk.

"Seriously, though. I'm learning magic. I just turned a match into a needle with a magic wand." John laughed. "It's just so amazing. It's like something out of one of my adventure or fantasy books. It's so unreal, so incredible, so - so -"

"Magical?" Sherlock offered, that little half-smirk still dominating his face.

"Shut up." John said even as he giggled. "This may be normal to you, but it's still brand new to me. Harry's talked about it for the past three years, but it didn't seem quite real until I got my own letter and went to Diagon Alley."

"You'll get used to it." Sherlock shrugged.

"I don't think I will, not fully, anyway." John admitted. "It's kinda hard to shrug off 11 years in the Muggle world, where paintings sit still, the staircases don't change, and matches don't turn into needles."

"I thought Muggles had moving staircases." Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Esca-ladders, or whatever."

"You mean escalators. Well, the steps move, because they're on a rotating belt, but the escalator itself doesn't change destinations." John explained.

"Hmm." Sherlock made a non-commental noise.

"Anyway, I just don't think I'll ever stop being amazed by magic."

"Good." Sherlock said flatly.

"What do you mean by that?" John tilted his head in asking.

"You won't ever take it for granted, or be limited by what you've grown up with always knowing. You know about other ways of doing things, and about doing totally new things like the things Muggles do. Elet-tar-ric lighting, for example."

"You mean electric." John corrected.

Sherlock ignored him. "You know that there is much more magic can do if used properly. If you treat magic with the respect it deserves, never taking anything for granted, you can figure out new ways to use magic." He paused, realizing he probably hadn't made much sense to poor John Watson. He had been ranting about his personal opinions - again - and hadn't bothered to completely explain his thought process. Magic just had so much potential, though. The fact that almost nobody studied it, stretched its boundaries,_ truly _learned how to_ use it_, it drove him mad. Another reason he was interested by Muggle science. They were always questioning, experimenting, changing the world on a regular basis. They had been to _the Moon_, for Merlin's sake! Yet the accomplishments of wizards had hardly changed since the Renaissance. Magic was such an incredible thing. It deserved to be used to its full potential. Why, if someone could figure out how to combine Muggle technology with magic, the sky was the limit - literally!

"Uh-huh." John said slowly, face scrunched in an attempt to understand. "If you say so." He shrugged and grinned.

Sherlock shook his head in mock shame at John's inability to comprehend, but couldn't keep a half-smirk off his face. He opened his mouth to tease the smaller boy, but before he could say anything -

"John!" A tall girl in Hufflepuff robes came sprinting up to their bench. She had tanned skin, straight light brown hair, and a wide pearly white grin on her face as she launched herself forwards and enveloped John in a bear hug.

"Hi, Harry!" John half-gasped, half-giggled as he hugged the girl back.

"I take it this is your sister?" Sherlock said sarcastically, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

He was ignored though, as Harriet started chattering to her brother, inquiring about everything that had happened since the Sorting Ceremony.

"Oh my gosh, John, you got into Gryffindor! Congrats! I would have liked you in Hufflepuff with me, but Gryffindor is awesome! Have you written Mum and Dad yet? Oh, what class did you just have? What did you do, and did you like it? What's the Gryffindor common room like? Have you made any friends yet? Oh, it's so good to have you here with me!"

Laughing, John put up a hand to signal her to stop. Thankfully for Sherlock, she heeded John's hint and shut up. Harriet, in Sherlock's opinion, was extremely annoying.

"Thanks, Harry, I like Gryffindor too, and its common room is cozy, lots of red and gold. It's only the first day, I haven't had time to write our parents yet. I just got out of Transfiguration, and we turned matches into needles. Only three people managed to do it, and I was one of them." John boasted.

Sherlock frowned in slight hurt, but it went away as John continued.

"But I only could do it because Sherlock here showed me how." John thumbed in Sherlock's direction, and for the first time, Harriet noticed the black-haired boy.

"Oh. You're Mycroft Holmes's brother, aren't you?" She asked flatly.

"Obviously." Sherlock echoed her tone.

"Don't know how you wound up in Gryffindor. Your brother is the biggest, most disgusting snake I've ever met." Harriet said bluntly.

"Harry!" John yelled.

"I'm not my brother. You'd do well to remember that, Ms. Watson." Sherlock replied coldly.

She simply shrugged. "Just called it like I see it. People like your family are some of the worst people in the world; difficult to convince me you're different."

"Shut up, Harry!" John snapped, anger flashing in his eyes, but his sister ignored him, keeping her eyes trained on Sherlock.

"I am also not my family, though you obviously have a problem with them. Our pureblood status, perhaps?" Sherlock threw out as he stood to his full height, an impressive (for his age) 4'10". "No, this is far more personal than just the typical muggleborn dislike of purebloods for looking down on them." He corrected himself. He scanned Harriet Watson from head to toe, searching for something that would point him in the direction. Details flew out him, and assembled themselves into one clear picture.

Sherlock's eyes light up with the answer, and he grinned sharply. Harriet unconsciously took a step back at the look on his face.

"Oh, I see now. Mycroft knew, didn't he? And he's blackmailing you with it, somehow? No," he amended, "he's simply lording the fact that he knows over you, just in case he needs something from you. And I'll bet you haven't even told your family, judging from John's confusion. Tut, tut, Ms. Watson. It's not healthy to keep secrets like that from your family. They only have your best interests at heart." Sherlock mocked, feeling vindictive glee coursing through him.

Harriet flinched in shock, then curled her hands into fists as fury dominated her features. "You - you -" she sputtered. "You _are_ just like him, you do that freaky thing too!"

"Harry, what is he -" John tried to intervene, but to no avail.

"Well, you and your brother can go die in a hole, you freak!" Eyes blazing, Harriet raised her fists as she advanced on Sherlock.

Sherlock took a couple hurried steps back. Tall as he was for his age, he wasn't a physical fighter, and Harriet was even taller. Mono-on-mono, it was devastating clear that Harriet would win.

"Harriet, stop!" John stepped in between the two of them, arms spread wide to shield Sherlock from any punches. "Tell me what is going on!"

Harriet clenched her teeth, clearly considering just shoving her brother aside to get to Sherlock, but she managed to restrain herself.

"Stay away from the Holmes's, John." Harriet growled, pointing an accusing finger at Sherlock. "They're nothing but freaks who won't hesitate to destroy you." With her advice given, the Hufflepuff turned on her heel and stalked away.

Sherlock blinked his eyes, and pursed his lips tightly. Muscles tense, he moved around John and marched to his school bag, scooping it and his book up from the bench, and then speed walking out of the courtyard. _How dare she?_ Sherlock thought. _Insult my family and me, then when I fight back threaten to beat me up? What an absolute blockheaded twit!_

A pitter-patter of footsteps followed him, and John ran up, stopping in front of him and blocking his way.

"Sherlock, what was all that about?" He didn't really sound angry, Sherlock noticed with surprise, just confused and a bit upset, maybe a little annoyed as well.

"Come on, I'll tell you on the way to Herbology." Sherlock sighed.

"No, Sherlock, tell me now." John said firmly, eyes darkening.

"The short version? My brother truly is the worst."

"Not good enough."

"My brother can deduce people like I can. Obviously, he deduced your sister, and she was not happy with something he pointed out. Realizing that, my brother is using the fact he could tell anyone at anytime to keep her in his pocket in case he ever requires anything from her. Thus, your sister is not fond of him, and by extension, me."

"What secret?" John asked after a moment of consideration.

"That is not for me to tell. Ask Harriet." Sherlock shuffled on his feet. He didn't want to make even more of an enemy out of Ms. Watson than he already had.

"I doubt she'd tell me." John grumbled. But he moved aside to let Sherlock pass, and he remained at his side as the two boys walked out onto the castle grounds and down the gently sloping land to the collection of greenhouses.

* * *

A couple hours later, Sherlock emerged from Greenhouse 1 thoroughly disgruntled and already hating Herbology.

Why? Sherlock had a list, and knowing his brother Mycroft, he probably had a file.

First, the classroom was a sweltering hot greenhouse that caused Sherlock to start sweating the instant he and John had walked through the door. It was also completely filthy and reeked of dragon dung.

Second, the greenhouse was far too small for the crowd of students that were crammed into it for a full double period. He had ended up being jammed between John and a skittish Hufflepuff girl with long drab brown hair that had introduced herself as "M-Molly Ho-Hooper".

Third, the fact that they had to work with the disgusting plants - without using their wands. The dragon hide gloves weren't a huge comfort. The plants they were working with had huge boils filled with goo that it would squirt you if you so much as blinked at it wrong. It was only Sherlock's reflexes that saved him from getting multiple face-fulls of the smelly gunk. Still, the sleeves of his robes were dripping with the goo, and the odor of the greenhouse hung over him like a cloud.

Needless to say, Sherlock was already trying to figure out how to get the best grades possible without actually having to show up.

John at his side, Sherlock strode into the castle, and immediately ducked into the first boys bathroom they passed, pulling John in with him. He darted to the sinks, and did his best to wash the gunk off his robes.

"Well, that was," John paused, searching for the right word, "an interesting class."

"Interesting." Sherlock scoffed. "Horrendous is the word you're looking for."

"You just don't like it because you got dirty." John chuckled.

Sherlock ignored him, vigorously scrubbing a bar of soap over his sleeves for the 4th time.

"Come on, we're going to be late for lunch."

"And I care more about that than getting this repulsive smell out of my robes, why?"

"Because you promised you would actually eat this time."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I did, didn't I?"

"You did." John confirmed from his place leaning against the bathroom wall.

"Fine." Sherlock sighed, abandoning his quest. This was probably the best he could do for now. He'd ditch the robe the minute he got back to the dorms and send it to the laundry. If that - magic - didn't get rid of the smell, he'd would have to burn it.

"Great." John grinned, and he took his turn dragging Sherlock to the Great Hall, where a majority of the school was already gathered.

"How much do I have to eat, Mother?" Sherlock mocked as he and John sat across from Potter and Weasley, both of whom were already tucking into a full plate of food.

"A whole sandwich and a fruit, Sherlock dear." John smirked as he started filling his own plate with various food stuffs.

"Complete and total idiocy, here I come." Sherlock half-heartedly pumped his fist before grabbing a turkey sandwich and an apple.

"We have History of Magic next. According to Fred and George, you'll barely be able to stay awake, so it doesn't matter." Weasley said between bites.

"Ah, yes. That class is taught by Professor Binns, correct?" Sherlock mulled as he took a hesitant bite of his sandwich.

"Yep." Weasley confirmed.

"Then there is no need for us to attend. John, would you accompany me to the library?"

"What, you mean ditch class?" John asked in shock.

"Obviously."

"We can't do that. It's against the rules."

"So?"

"S-So?! Sherlock, it's our first day, we can't just skip."

"No one will notice." Sherlock waved dismissively.

"Um, there's this thing called the role, Sherlock. The professor will know we aren't there."

"And he won't do a thing about it, even if he does call it."

"I thought you liked history, though." John attempted to persuade

"When it is taught by a competent teacher, which everyone knows Binns is not. Besides, I have better things to do with my time than sit in lectures about the Goblin Rebellions when everything needed to pass the exams can be better learned out of a textbook."

"Sherlock, come on. I don't want to make a bad impression on my first day. When we get caught -"

"If." Sherlock corrected. "And we won't."

John continued as if he didn't hear him. "- we'll get branded as troublemakers for the rest of our lives."

"I was planning on that happening anyway." Sherlock remarked casually.

"Well, I wasn't. I don't want to get kicked out of this school."

"You can't get kicked out of Hogwarts for skiving one class." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Upon observing John's stormy features, though, he sighed, and gave in. "Fine, I'll come this time, but don't blame me if I stop paying attention."

"Thank you." John breathed, the relief clear on his face. "Now finish eating so we can go."

"Bossy." Sherlock grumbled under his breath. John pretended he didn't hear him.

Sherlock gulped down the last couple bites of his sandwich, snatched up his apple, and stood.

"I'll eat it on the way, mother." He mockingly promised. John sighed, but let him have his way.

* * *

Sherlock looked down at the blond-haired boy and smirked smugly. John had his head laid on his curled up arms and was fast asleep at his desk, just as he had been since the first ten minutes of class.

Sherlock wondered if he should just leave John to wake up by himself. After all, he had been the one so eager to come to class. But he decided he wasn't that cruel as to abandon his strangely normal new companion. Plus, he wanted to see the look on John's face when he woke up to an empty classroom when he was supposed to be learning history.

Sherlock shook John's shoulder. "John."

John waved a hand at him sleepily. "Five more . . . " John groaned.

"John, wake up. You're in class."

This got John to raise his head up. "What . . ." He trailed off, half-lidded eyes opening fully as he took in his surroundings.

"Welome back to the world of the living." Sherlock spread his arms to display the classroom to the other boy.

"Oh, no. The professor -"

"Didn't even notice you were still in the room. The minute the bell rang he floated back through the chalkboard and let everyone else wake up by themselves."

"Wait, everyone else?"

"Meaning everyone who wasn't Granger or me. I was reading and she was somehow enduring the Monotone Voice of Annihilation by Boredom and taking notes about the lecture. There could have been absolutely no one in the room and Binns wouldn't have noticed. I told you- useless class, no point in coming."

"Oh." John frowned. "I guess you were right. I was hoping that magical history would be interesting."

"It is, but Binns is stuck on the Goblin Wars, and could put a troll to sleep with his voice. Next History class, we're going to the library to study. We'll learn far more there than stuck in that classroom."

"Definitely. Time for dinner, right?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes. Am I correct in assuming I have to eat now too?"

"You are! You must be a genius!" John cried mockingly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, John."

"Please. You use sarcasm all the time."

"Because that's the only form of wit most of the people around me can understand."

John's mouth twitched appreciatively, but unfortunately for Sherlock, he was not distracted from the initial topic. "Come on, Sherlock. I expect you to at least eat something substantial."

"Of course, Doctor Watson." Sherlock said as he strode out the door, John only half a step behind him.

* * *

Dinner came and went, with Sherlock consuming a usually unhealthy amount of biscuits. He thought John would have made a fuss about the nutritional value of such things, but his companion let it go, probably realizing he wouldn't be able to change his mind. _Smart boy_, Sherlock thought. The minute John was done, Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him up.

"What, Sherlock?" John asked, sounding a bit peeved.

"We're going to find the library, of course. Far more interesting than listening to gossip."

"The library is on the second floor." Granger piped up.

"Yes, thank you. Come on, John." Privately, Sherlock wondered how she already knew. He didn't remember it being mentioned in _Hogwarts; A History_, and she was a Muggleborn. She must have found it earlier in the day, probably during lunch.

"You know, you could ask if I want to come." John huffed as he trailed after the taller boy.

"Two words, John. Spell books. Besides, you're already coming."

**I have five words to describe the next chapter: Potions class and Flying lessons. This is going to be wicked fun to write!**

**I have gotten a few suggestions, but I'm always open for more! Give me your ideas, your plot bunnies! I promise to give them a good home here at this fic.**

**Have a good day/night!**

**-Blue**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello! Sorry for not updating sooner, but I spent a week in Washington DC on vacation! Lots of walking, and it was extremely hot, but the monuments and memorials were beautiful, and the Smithsonian exhibits were outstanding. Also got to ride the Metro, which was a blast.**

**OVER 100 FOLLOWERS! That's a first for me, so thank you all! Extra shout-out to the favoriters and reviewers, you guys rock.**

**I know I said this would have flying lessons, but unfortunately, by the time I reached a good stopping point, the chapter was already over 5000 words. However, I did incorporate a couple of ideas given to me by some reviewers (thank you!), so I hope you enjoy anyway. **

The Sorting of Sherlock Holmes - Part Five

The rest of the week operated in a similar way.

Sherlock would rise early to explore the castle, and even though he didn't have to, join John in the Great Hall and listen to John badger him about eating, usually downing tea and toast to appease the blond boy. Redbeard made daily appearances, snatching bacon and sausage off of their plates before returning to the Owlrey. Sherlock would scan the ceiling for any sign of a message from his parents, but as the days went on, there was nothing. It appeared they were simply going to ignore him, and that was better than Sherlock could have hoped for.

They would then go to their classes, always arriving a good half-hour before everyone else their first block. John tried to convince Sherlock to stay in the Great Hall a little later so they weren't alone in the mornings, but Sherlock refused. Since then, John had learned it wise to bring a book for the days Sherlock didn't feel like talking before class. Which, admittedly, was not as often as Sherlock would have thought it. Talking to John was far more interesting than talking to most of the morons his age, and was usually more entertaining than his books.

The rest of the day would be spent whispering comments under their breath when the teacher was distracted and practicing magic. Their first charms class was spent learning the levitation spell _Wingardium Leviosa_, and after Sherlock taught it to John, they spent the block trying to outdo each other by levitating heavier and heavier objects each time. The contest ended with Sherlock the obvious victor when he managed to lift John's chair - with John still in it.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was supposed to be one of the best classes - combining knowledge from multiple subjects to learn defensive spells and how to protect oneself, but instead, it was the laughingstock of the school. This could all be blamed, Sherlock thought, on the teacher, Professor Quirrell. He had a nasty stutter that made him almost impossible to understand, his classroom was poorly lit and reeked of garlic, and he never actually taught anything useful. Sherlock had taken to bringing proper DADA textbooks from the library to read during class after the first disastrous block, and John often read along over his shoulder.

Astronomy on Wednesday was both interesting and boring. They had been instructed how to use their telescopes properly, and jumped right into creating their own star charts, learning names and positions of planets and stars as they went along. Sherlock supposed that the stars were beautiful in a way (John seemed quite captivated by the cloudless, smog free night sky), but personally didn't think that the class was very important. The only use he could think of for astronomy was its role in rituals, but that could easily be found out when he actually had need of the knowledge, and they weren't learning anything like that anyway. Surely there was no need for an entire class devoted to the subject.

Then came Friday, the day that Sherlock had been looking forward to since he first arrived at Hogwarts. The first Potions class of the year. While he didn't look it on the outside, Sherlock was truly excited. Potions was easily the most challenging course in the school, one that combined wits and magic, and had no bounds. This was magic that was actually useful, unlike Astronomy. Potions was wonderfully complex, and it was the one first year class that Sherlock thought might actually engage him. So basically, Friday had looked like it was going to be a good day.

Unfortunately, things didn't quite work out like that.

The deceivingly ordinary barn owl arrived extremely early in the morning, before even Sherlock was up, to the Gryffindor first year dorms. Its cargo was a sealed red Howler, that upon recognizing that its recipient was in the room, began to smoke in warning. Fortunately for the owl, it was able to slip free of the volatile envelope before it could burst into flames.

"WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES." The Howler bellowed, waking every boy in the room, including its intended target. The voice was a female's, and though there was no obvious anger, the icy tone was enough to send shivers down every spine.

"WE HAVE HEARD THAT YOU HAVE ALLOWED YOURSELF TO BECOME SORTED INTO GRYFFINDOR. HOW DARE YOU ASSOCIATE WITH THOSE MUDBLOODS AND BLOOD TRAITORS! YOU ARE A DISGRACE UPON THIS FAMILY, LIKE ALWAYS. WE HAD HOPED THAT YOU WOULD MATURE BEYOND THIS SILLY PHASE BY THE TIME YOU CAME TO HOGWARTS, BUT IT APPEARS YOU STILL CONTINUE TO REBEL. DO NOT BOTHER TO COME HOME OVER CHRISTMAS. WE ARE VERY DISAPPOINTED IN YOU."

The letter suddenly flared, and then died to reveal only ash on the floor. The dumbstruck gazes of the first year boys swiveled to Sherlock, who had a blank mask up. If one looked closely though, they would see fists wringing the sheets with an almost murderous intent, a clenched jaw, and furious blinking.

Sherlock swallowed the thick lump that was had suddenly begun to clog his throat. He had been expecting something like this, had dismissed it so readily from his mind, thinking he didn't care a bit. The truth was, however, that this was his mother scolding him, someone he had grown up loving and seeking approval from. Even when he realized how skewed his family's ideals were, there was still a part of him that cared for them. To hear such animosity over something he could not control, to hear how huge a failure he was to them . . . it still hurt, badly.

"Sherlock . . ." He recognized John's voice, gentling and pitying. Anger sparked irrationally.

"Shut up." He snapped. He glared at the rest of the room as well as he slipped out of bed and grabbed a pair of robes. "That goes for you lot, too."

"We didn't say anything." Weasley pointed out.

"You were thinking, it's annoying." He huffed, slinging his school bag over his shoulders (already packed for Potions) and blowing out of the door, racing down the stairs and into the Gryffindor bathrooms. He manually locked the huge doors behind him, regardless of any inconvenience it may have caused anyone, and stood over the sinks, fingers curled around the cool porcelain, and breathing raggedly as he locked eyes with his reflection in the mirror. He wouldn't cry, he wouldn't cry, he _would not cry_. He refused to let them get to him.

_They will not hurt me. They will not hurt me. I do not care. I do not care._ Sherlock thought sternly as his own gaze burrowed into him from the looking glass. _I do not care. I do not care._

He splashed water over his face, rubbing the moisture through his curls and into his cheeks. The freezing tap water felt good in a shocking sort of way, and Sherlock managed to work up a grin, albeit a stiff one. He changed into his day robes and stuffed his pajamas into his school bag. He unlocked the door, and after checking to make sure the passages were clear of people, he crept out.

It was far earlier than when he usually woke up. The sun had just barely begun to peek its rays over the horizon, leaving the corridors outside the Fat Lady near pitch dark, with only the barest hint of sunlight and the fading embers of put-out torches to light Sherlock's way. He had no idea if he was allowed to be out and about this early, but he truly didn't care. What he had said to John about expecting to be labeled a troublemaker was perfectly true. He held little faith or respect in authority figures unless they earned it, and didn't care for rules. Therefore, he was bound to get into trouble wherever he went. It was all a matter of time.

Sherlock descended to the ground floor, and skirted past the entrance to the Great Hall. He wanted to see what else was in this area.

At first appearance, nothing. But the large portrait hanging just a little ways down an adjacent hallway caught Sherlock's eye. Unlike every other painting Sherlock had seen at Hogwarts, this was not a picture of a person or animal. This portrait was a huge depiction of a bowl of fruit, and nothing on it moved. Why on earth would Hogwarts have a non-moving picture of a bowl of fruit hanging in the entrance hall? Most likely? There was something special about it.

Sherlock stepped forward, standing only inches away from the flaking paint. There was no request for a password, making it less likely there was one. Then there must be a place to touch to make it reveal its secret. Sherlock rubbed a flat palm methodically over the painting, making sure to cover every inch of every object depicted.

When his fingers brushed a vibrant pear, the painting let out a high-pitched giggle. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in shock, and watched as the painting swung in to reveal a large room with a high ceiling. Old-fashioned stoves lined the walls, while tables filled with various breakfast stuffs were crowded in the space between. Further away, a mini-replica of the four house tables sat, empty golden plates sparkling in the torch light. But the most noticeable thing about this room was its inhabitants.

Scurrying back and forth from the ovens and tables, carrying stacks of plates and kitchen utensils of every kind, were short little creatures that Sherlock knew were called house elves. On average, they were about three feet tall. They had green skin, long narrow fingers, bat-like ears, a long pointed nose, and round eyes the size of tennis balls. They were clothed in pillowcases that were obviously taken good care of, an almost blinding white and stamped over the heart with the Hogwarts school crest.

It wasn't long before one of them saw Sherlock standing in the doorway.

"Oh, Master Student, Blinky did not see you standing there." The house elf, whose name was apparently Blinky, squeaked as he gave a low bow.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, Blinky. Is this the Hogwarts kitchen?" Sherlock asked politely.

Blinky nodded quickly, his large ears flapping frantically. "Yes, Master Holmes."

"Call me Sherlock."

"Master Sherlock." Blinky corrected. "Is there anything Blinky can get for you?"

"No, I do not believe so. I am not very fond of food in general."

"None at all?" Blinky gasped.

"Well," Sherlock hesitated. "I have a soft spot for biscuits."

"Right away then, Master Sherlock." Blinky snapped his fingers, and into his hands popped a plate filled with biscuits of every type Sherlock could think of (which was quite a few). Blinky presented the plate proudly to Sherlock. Sherlock took the plate from him, albeit reluctantly. He did not feel like eating, but he knew that Blinky would take it as a personal offense if he turned down the meal. The Holmes family had more than a few house elves under its roof, and he was well versed in their reactions to certain actions. They lived to serve, and were perfectly happy that way.

"Thank you, Blinky. May I sit at the tables?" Sherlock gestured to the mock house tables.

"Of course, Master Sherlock." Blinky bowed low. "Does Master Sherlock require anything else?"

"No, that will be all. Return to your usual duties." Blinky nodded quickly, and resumed his previous position at one of the stoves.

Sherlock settled at the spot where he would normally sit in the actual Great Hall, and munched on one of the biscuits. They were not awful, he decided. And he liked the relative quiet of the kitchens. There were no babbling voices conversing about stupid ordinary things, only the occasional squeak from a house elf. They would glance his way every few seconds to make sure he did not require anything, but other than that they left him alone, something else he appreciated. He was not particularly eager to see any of his year mates or talk with them any time soon.

Sherlock was just polishing off his fourth biscuit when someone else joined him and the house elves in the kitchen. Rather, _two_ someone else's.

"Come on, Georgie, before a professor comes." These were the only words of announcement as one of the Weasley twins, most likely Fred, ducked in to the kitchen through the portrait.

"Right behind you, Freddie." And in popped the other twin, the painting swinging shut behind him.

"Ahem." Sherlock cleared his throat, and identical expressions of disbelief were thrown his way as the twins heads swiveled his way.

"What are you -" Began Fred.

"- doing here?" Finished George.

"I could ask you the same question."

The twins shot each other looks, then turned devious smirks back to Sherlock. "Touché." They chimed.

"You're the Head Boy's -"

"- little brother, aren't you?"

"Holmes, right? You held up -"

"- the Sorting ceremony."

"I've never seen McGonagall -"

"- get so impatient with a first year before."

"The look on her face." They chorused.

"Happy to be of service." Sherlock quirked a corner of his lip, unable to not be amused by the twins Ping-Pong way of talking.

"So how did an innocent little first year like yourself -" Fred started. _Ping._

Sherlock snorted, and the twins grinned at him before George took over.

"- find the kitchen on your first Friday morning at the castle?" George finished. _Pong._

"And so early in the morning, too?" Fred said with a tone of mock shame, pretending to wave a _tsk_-ing finger at the black-haired first year.

"Howler in the dorm, and that is all I shall say on the matter." Sherlock said firmly. He had the feeling that the twins had received several such correspondence, and would not pry deeply into the subject matter of the Howler in question.

"Ah, tis a pity when a parent -"

"- feels it necessary to interrupt valuable sleep."

"I have told why I am here. Now why are you?"

The twins grinned. "We are here -"

"- to leave a friendly gift -"

"- for our favorite little snakes -"

"- in their morning meal."

Sherlock smirked. "Well then go right ahead."

"Not going to tell -"

"- your big brother about this?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Not a chance. Whatever you're doing, feel free to add extra to my brother's. The prat deserves it."

Fred clapped him on the shoulder. "You know what -"

" - you and us are going to -"

"- get along just fine."

* * *

Hours later, long after Fred and George had done their deed and left, Sherlock abandoned his sanctuary and entered the Great Hall. He refused to be a coward and hide from his peers. Mycroft would no doubt be watching his every move, and he would not give him or his parents the satisfaction of thinking they had got to him.

So, with his head held high, eyes pointing straight ahead, Sherlock strode down the aisle with the most put-upon air of confidence he could muster. As usual, there was an empty space besides John, who still sat with Potter and Weasley. Sherlock dropped down into the place, and took a moment to appreciate the humor of the look of shock on John's face.

"Good morning, John." Sherlock greeted as he reached for his morning cup of tea.

"Morning, Sherlock." John replied faintly. "Are - where were you?" John switched questions. "Exploring?"

"In a fashion." Sherlock hinted as he stirred the sugar into his cup. "And no need to ask me to eat; I've already done that."

"Oh, okay." John said. He seemed unsure of what to say next. Luckily for John, though, a distraction offered itself in the form of a great calamity arising from the Slytherin table.

It was hard to say what was happening, as a thick cloud of multi-colored smoke was obscuring any view, but from the high-pitched screaming that was now echoing around the hall, it was clear that animals were involved in some way, and that they were not necessarily the cute and cuddly kind.

"Sherlock, please tell me you have nothing to do with this." John moaned as the smoke cleared. In the place of the male Slytherin students were now dozens of long, slimy snakes. Burmese Pythons, if Sherlock was not mistaken. Sherlock grinned. He had a hand it to the twins. This was some impressive magic for third years.

"I had nothing to do with about 95, no, 90 percent of this." Sherlock said honestly.

"And the other 10 percent?" John asked.

"I did not stop the culprit. Actually, I encouraged them." Sherlock replied shamelessly, taking a sip of his tea.

"Is there any point in telling you why that was a bad idea?"

"Nope." Sherlock popped the "p". "Look, mail."

As per usual, Redbeard and Hedwig, Potter's owl, came diving to their table. Sherlock welcomed his owl with bacon, which he accepted eagerly.

"What have we got today?" Potter asked as he poured sugar over his porridge.

"Double Potions with the Slytherins, " said Weasley. "It's going to be a nightmare."

"You have a letter, Potter." Sherlock said. This was actually almost not boring, as Potter had not received messages of any kind all week.

"I do?" Potter checked over his owl. "Huh." He remarked, surprise coloring his tone. Potter untied the scrap of parchment, and after giving him an affectionate nip, Hedwig flew off.

"Hagrid's invited me to tea this afternoon." Potter said aloud after he skimmed his message.

Sherlock's interest became piqued. Potter was friendly with the groundskeeper? How?

"Do you wanna come, Ron?"

Weasley shrugged. "Why not?"

Potter turned towards them. "John? Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked. Potter was asking _him_ if he wanted to join? Why? They were not enemies, but they weren't particularly friendly either. Well, Sherlock wasn't particularly friendly with almost anyone; but Potter wasn't friendly with him the way that he was with Weasley and, to a lesser extension, John.

"Sure, sounds nice." John answered with his customary grin. Both him and Potter then look at him.

Well, John would be there, and it wasn't like he had anything better to do. Besides, you could never have too many allies, and Hagrid seemed like the person you would rather have with you than against you.

"Yes, I'll come."

* * *

Potions took place in one of the dungeons underneath the ground floor. Absolutely no natural light made its way into the chosen classroom. Flickering torches were the only source of illumination, casting wavering shadows over the gathered students and their potion supplies. The walls were lined with shelves, each of which held row after row of dusty, murky multi-colored jars filled with unknown substances. The air was chill and damp, and the first years unconsciously huddled nearer to the small open flames beneath their cauldrons.

The room contained desks for two to share, with four columns stretching back nine rows. An invisible line divided the desks in half, Gryffindors on one side with Slytherins on the other. The Gryffindors wore sneers; the Slytherins (the males were back to being humans) wore smirks. This was their domain, and the Snakes knew it.

The teacher of this class was none other than Professor Snape, Head of Slytherin House, who entered the room by opening the door to an adjacent room with an echoing boom and with a flourish of his pitch black robes.

_Flair for the dramatics, this one,_ thought Sherlock from his spot in the front row next to John.

Snape started the class by taking the roll call, pausing at Potter's name.

"Ah, Yes, " he said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new - celebrity. " A Slytherin Sherlock remembered being named Draco Malfoy and a couple thick-looking cronies sniggered behind their hands.

Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were a deep black, cold and empty and made Sherlock think of dark tunnels.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making, " he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but the students caught every word - like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death - if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach. "

Pure silence followed the speech. Sherlock found himself handing out a small ounce of respect for the man. It was hard to interest him, much less captivate him, yet Snape had done that with only a few words. Every piece of his mind was now paying attention, and itching to see what happened next.

"Potter!" said Snape suddenly, causing some of the students to jump at the breaking of silence. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

_Powdered root of asphodel and an infusion of wormwood?_ Sherlock cocked his head. He knew the answer, of course, but he doubt Potter did - and he had no reason to either. No one below sixth year did.

"I don't know, sir." Potter inevitably replied.

Snape's lips curled into a sneer. "Tut, tut - fame clearly isn't everything." He ignored Granger, who had immediately raised her hand. (_How on earth did she know?)_

"Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?" Granger stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without her leaving her seat, but Snape only had eyes for the Potter boy.

"I don't know, sir." Was once again Potter's answer.

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He recognized this tone anywhere. He was familiar enough with it. It was the tone of a bully landing hits. The respect Snape had earned flew out the window. More than anything else, Sherlock _despised_ bullies.

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?" At this, Granger stood up, her hand stretching toward the dungeon ceiling.

"I don't know," said Potter quietly. "I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?"

A few Gryffindors laughed, and even Sherlock smiled at Potter's bold cheek.

Snape, however, was predictably not pleased. "Sit down." He snapped to Granger.

As she did, though, Sherlock got to his feet, standing merely a yard away from the Potions Master.

"Asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and is an antidote to most poisons. Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. All of these things are not common knowledge until sixth year, though, so I fail to see how it is fair to pepper questions about them upon a first year who has next to no chance of knowing the answers." Sherlock stated flatly.

For a moment, Snape looked thrown, and Sherlock lapped in the small victory.

"Holmes, correct?" Like the mascot of his house, Snape's voice was soft and deadly.

"Yes, but if you're going to compare me to your student, please don't." Sherlock said glibly.

"Detention, tomorrow night. Now sit down."

Sherlock shrugged. "Just answering your questions." But he sat back down, unwilling to further test his luck.

John was staring at him with an expression that was half approval and half disbelief. Potter was smiling softly at him, a grateful tinge in his emerald eyes. Weasley was full-out grinning vindictively, while Granger seemed slightly outraged that he had dared to speak that way to a teacher. The Slytherins were glaring murderously at him, but the Gryffindors were matching them with grins and smiles. All in all, Sherlock felt pretty good.

* * *

The rest of the lesson passed badly for the Gryffindors, with two points being taken from Potter for a screw-up of Neville Longbottom's. Sherlock had longed to get back up and give Snape a further piece of his mind, but John's iron grip on his robe sleeve kept him from doing anything rash.

Upon exiting the dungeon, Potter and Weasley immediately joined him and John.

"That was wicked, Holmes." Weasley praised.

"Thank you, Sherlock, but you shouldn't have done that." Potter said, smiling despite his words.

"That's right." Granger's voice came from behind them, and said-Muggleborn came striding up to the quartet. "You got detention already, and Professor Snape - "

" - Is a bully." Sherlock cut her off. "I don't like bullies, no matter how old they are or how much authority they carry."

Granger didn't seem to know what to say to this, so she continued on her way, head in the air and speed walking.

"And you got her to shut up. Nice." Weasley grinned. "She's just jealous she's not the only smart one."

"She's not that bad." John defended.

"Not that good either."

"Leave her alone." Potter sighed. "Let's go down to Hagrid's."

Hagrid, it turned out, lived in a wooden hut just on the edge of the forest at the bottom of a gently sloping incline from the castle. A crossbow and a pair of galoshes were outside the front door. When Potter knocked, they heard a frantic scrabbling from inside and several booming barks. Hagrid's voice rang out a couple seconds later, saying, "Back, Fang - back. "

Hagrid's big, hairy face appeared in the crack as he pulled the door open. "Hang on, " he said. "Back, Fang. "

He let them in, struggling to keep a hold on the collar of an enormous black boarhound. There was only one room inside. Hams and pheasants were hanging from the ceiling, a copper kettle was boiling on the open fire, and in the corner stood a massive bed with a patchwork quilt over it.

"Make yerselves at home, " said Hagrid, letting go of Fang, who bounded straight at Weasley and started licking his ears.

"This is Ron Weasley, John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes." Potter introduced.

"Another Weasley, eh?" said Hagrid, glancing at Weasley's freckles. "I spent half me life chasin' yer twin brothers away from the forest. "

"Met yer sister." He said to John. "Fine Beater. Best in the school, in me opinion." John grinned.

Then he turned to Sherlock. "Yer Mycroft's brother, aren't ye?"

"I personally hope I'm adopted." Sherlock said.

"Yes, well," Hagrid cleared his throat, and turned away, producing some rock cakes he had baked earlier.

Sherlock didn't bother trying to look polite and take a rock cake, and judging by the look on his fellow students faces, he was glad not to. But the others pretended to enjoy them as they blabbered about their first week of classes to the enormous man. Sherlock simply accepted some offered tea and observed as Hagrid listened intently and his bloodhound drooled over Potter's robes.

Weasley, Potter, John, and Hagrid shared a brief conversation about Filch's cat (it appeared they all harbored a hatred of her) before Potter brought up Snape's lesson. Hagrid told Potter not to worry about it, that Snape hardly ever liked any of the students.

"But he seemed to really hate me. "

"Rubbish!" said Hagrid. "Why should he?" Sherlock noticed, however, that Hagrid seemed to stare at a spot over Potter's left shoulder as he said this, before quickly asking Weasley about an older brother named Charlie, who had apparently gone on to work at a dragon preserve, most likely in Romania.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock watched Potter pick up a paper from underneath a tea cozy. Judging from the size, shape, jagged edges, and printing on both sides, it was a clipping from a newspaper. John noticed as well, and his eyes flickered back and forth as he read over Potter's shoulder.

"Hagrid!" said Potter suddenly, "that Gringotts break-in happened on my birthday! It might've been happening while we were there!"

Sherlock perked up. Hagrid and Potter were at Gringotts when the break in occurred?! There was no way that was a coincidence. This thought was further cemented in Sherlock's mind as Hagrid once again avoided eye contact and instead offering another rock cake.

Sherlock's mind whirled as he recalled the article. The vault that had been broken into had been emptied earlier that day. The fact it had been emptied suggested that there was not much in it to begin with, but that the object/objects was/were very valuable. And now, here was proof a Hogwarts employee had been to Gringotts, and the fact that the third floor corridor was off limits on pains of death? It seemed very likely that the two events were connected.

He needed to speak to Potter about this, find out for certain.

When the sun finally began to hang low in the sky, Hagrid bid the four boys farewell. As they walked up to the school, though, Sherlock grabbed Potter's shoulder. John and Weasley look curiously at them, but Potter waved them on. They looked reluctant to do so, but they continued to climb the hill.

"What happened at Gringotts at your birthday?" Sherlock asked.

"What? We didn't see a bank robbery, if that's what you mean." Potter answered puzzled.

"It's not. Look, Potter, just tell me exactly what Hagrid and you did once you got there."

"It's Harry." Potter answered shortly.

"Harry, then. Please, just answer the question."

"Well, Hagrid took me to my vault to get money for school supplies, and then -" Pot-Harry hesitated.

"And then?" Sherlock coaxed.

"And then Hagrid grabbed something out of a vault." Harry answered vaugly.

"A school vault? What did he grab? Was there anything else left?" Sherlock questioned.

"Why do you care? Why should I tell you?" Harry returned.

"Because it could be nothing, or it could be everything."

"You didn't answer me."

"And you haven't answered me." Sherlock countered.

Harry sighed. "If it was a school vault, he didn't say. He picked up a tiny package wrapped in brown paper -" Harry made approximate gestures with his hands, " - and no, it was the only thing in the vault. Now, answer my questions."

"You telling me just confirmed my theory that the package that was almost stolen is what lies in the third floor corridor. And you must ask yourself, if someone nearly succeeded in getting it out of Gringotts, what will they do now that it's at Hogwarts? And I care because it's a mystery. One that I intend to solve."

**Flying lessons next time, I promise.**

**Please review, fav or follow if you're new or already haven't. Make suggestions, tell me who or what you want to see, and I'll do my best! I love hearing all your amazing ideas!**

**Should I write in Sherlock's detention with Snape, or just gloss over it? Feedback is welcome.**

**Have a great summer! (Mine has been fantastic so far with my discovery of Merlin (on s3) and Doctor Who (ditto))**

**-Blue**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello! Thank you so much for the favs (105), follows (119), and reviews! You guys rock, and your reviews are super inspiring, so thank you!**

**I recently joined Hogwarts Extreme, an awesome roleplay and social Harry Potter site. If you want to find me, my username is Seidrs Chosen (which I'm considering making my new penname, thoughts?).**

**Flying lessons, ho! Enjoy!**

The Sorting of Sherlock Holmes - Part Six

_Correspondence_

_From: John Watson_

_To: Mr. and Mrs. Watson_

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_I absolutely love Hogwarts! Harry's letters and stories didn't even come close to capturing how grand and amazing it is. It's this enormous castle filled with towers and secret passages and paintings that can move and talk. The grounds spread out for acres, and the Black Lake is pretty in an eerie way. Supposedly there's a giant squid living in it, and mermaids too, but I haven't seen any of them yet._

_Did Harry tell you about the Houses? There are four, and you're sorted into them based on your personality. Harry is a Hufflepuff, the House for loyal and hardworking people. I got sorted into Gryffindor, the House for brave and daring people. Or, as Sherlock says, the bullheaded and stupidly reckless. Don't see how he can talk as he's in Gryffindor as well, but he calls himself the exception._

_Oh, I haven't told you about Sherlock Holmes. He's a bloody genius! He can tell everything about a person just by looking at them (He knew where I live and about Gladstone and how I play goalie in football just a minute after I first met him!). He knows just about everything about magic, and is top of our class. Not sure why he's not in Ravenclaw with a brain like that (the house for the smart and witty), but I'm glad he's in Gryffindor, otherwise I probably wouldn't have met him, because he's not much for social interaction. Probably because he's light-years ahead of everyone else in the brains department._

_He's a bit odd, but I suppose that comes with the genius territory. Get this, he got detention on Friday (for sticking up for another student when they were being bullied), but when he left for it the next day, he came back only 15 minutes later. All he said was that Professor Snape had let him leave early. No idea how he managed that, as Snape is notorious for hating Gryffindor students, but whatever he did, I'm betting it will be a while before Snape gives him detention again._

_The classes have been absolutely brilliant. In Transfiguration, we've been turning matches and buttons into needles and coins. We're learning how to levitate things in Charms, and we've been taking care of really odd plants in Herbology (Sherlock is not thrilled with them, as they seem to enjoy trying to squirt him with their sap). Today, in fact, is our first flying lesson! (I still can't get over the broomstick cliché.) The only problem is that it's with the Slytherins, the House of the cunning and ambitious. They're the worst, looking down on anyone whose not from an all-wizard family. Sherlock says that Slytherin used to be a great House, but in the past century it's gone way downhill because of these two Dark Lords that came from that House and corrupted it. Either way, Slytherins are jerks._

_Sherlock is telling me to hurry up (I'm writing this at breakfast in the Great Hall, and Sherlock doesn't like to stay there longer than necessary), so I guess it's time to wrap up. Say hi to Gladstone for me, and I'll write again soon._

_Love,_

_John_

_PS, the owl that delivered this is Sherlock's owl Redbeard. He likes bacon. Give him that and he will love you._

* * *

"Are you done yet?" Sherlock sighed. John was taking forever with his letter to his parents. How much could he possibly have to say?

"Almost." John muttered absentmindedly as he scrawled his signature and a quick post script. "Okay, done!" He cheered, clicking his Muggle pen closed. Sherlock had to admit, pens were far superior to quills and ink wells. No constant dipping, no waiting for the excess ink to dry, and no chance of the ink storage shattering all over your books if you dropped your bag.

"Here." Sherlock held out his hand for the parchment. John rolled it up and tied it shut with twine, and Sherlock bound the scroll to his owl's leg. John fed Redbeard a bit of bacon, and after hooting appreciatively and snatching it up, he spread his wings and took off.

"Thanks for letting me use Redbeard." John said.

"It's no problem. Redbeard gets twitchy when he hasn't flown long distances in awhile, so you're doing him and me a favor." Sherlock remembered all too well the last time Redbeard had been cooped up around the manor for longer than a week. It wasn't pretty.

"Now may we go?" Sherlock pressed. He was itching to get out of the Hall and into the air.

"Yes we may." John rolled his eyes, though a slight smile betrayed a lack of real annoyance.

"Can we join you?" Harry Potter interjected. Ron Weasley nodded in askance as well.

"Of course!" John answered.

The two boys grinned thankfully.

Sherlock couldn't blame them for wanting to leave. Like she had ever since the notice of flying lessons had been posted, Hermione Granger had been reading aloud tips and background history about flying and Quidditch from a library book entitled _Quidditch Through the Ages_. This had gotten old real quick, the only one not completely annoyed being Neville Longbottom.

Bucking the trend of the fantastic tall tales that had been spreading among the first years like wildfire about hair-raising broomstick related escapades, Longbottom admitted that he had never been on a broom before and would very much like to keep it that way. Sherlock thought that this option was probably the best, as Longbottom had enough accidents with both feet firmly on the ground. Longbottom clung to Granger's every word on the subject, hoping for a tip that would keep him from injuring himself.

Sherlock could have told him and Granger that trying to learn flying out of a book was pointless. Like any other sport, after basic instruction, all you could do was practice to get better. Books were useless in this case.

Speaking of Longbottom, it appeared he had gotten a package from one of the arriving owls. The husky boy unwrapped a small box and pulled out a gold-ringed clear glass ball filled with white smoke.

"It's a Remembrall!" Longbottom exclaimed. "When the smoke turns red it means -" As he spoke, the smoke inside the ball did indeed turn red, "- it means I've forgotten something." He finished dejectedly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Hardly a useful device if it couldn't tell you what you had forgotten, or how important that forgotten thing was.

Longbottom was pondering just what it was that had slipped his mind when, from behind him, the Slytherins Draco Malfoy and his flunkies approached. Malfoy took one look at the ball clutched in Longbottom's fist, and quick as a whip, snatched it from his grip.

Harry and Weasley immediately shot to their feet with furious scowls. Sherlock knew that they both hated Malfoy with a passion, and deduced they were eager to use this as a reason to fight the blond Snake.

Thankfully, before the two boys could do anything stupid, Professor McGonagall descended onto the scene. "What's going on?" She demanded to know, taking in the situation.

"Malfoy's got my Remembrall, Professor." Longbottom said quietly.

Malfoy immediately chucked the trinket back to Longbottom. "Just looking." He scowled, before stalking off to the Slytherin table.

"Well, now that the drama is over with -" Sherlock stood, "- let's go."

* * *

At 3:30 that afternoon, Sherlock, John, Harry, Weasley, and the other Gryffindors hurried down the front steps onto the grounds for their first flying lesson. It was a clear, breezy day, and the grass rippled under their feet as they marched down the sloping lawns toward a smooth, flat area on the opposite side of the grounds to the forbidden forest, whose trees were swaying darkly in the distance.

Flying lessons for the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had been held here yesterday, which Sherlock had spied upon. Some had genuine skill at flying, but the majority had been lacking. One Hufflepuff in particular, a boy called Anderson, had been particularly painful to watch, messing up every aspect of his form and never making it more than 10 feet off the ground. Sherlock could only pray that there were no idiots like Anderson in this class.

The Slytherins were already there, and so were twenty broomsticks lying in neat lines on the ground. Sherlock had heard Fred and George Weasley complain about the school brooms, saying that some of them started to vibrate if you flew too high, or always flew slightly to the left, and recalling the smooth flight of his Nimbus 2000 back home (a birthday gift), internally sighed.

Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, gray hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk. "Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up. "

Sherlock glanced down at his broom. It was old and some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles. Once again, he pined for his own broom.

"Stick out your right hand over your broom, " called Madam Hooch at the front, "and say 'Up!"'

"Up!" Everyone shouted.

Sherlock's broom jumped up immediately, hitting his palm with a sound _smack!_ Harry, Weasley, John, Malfoy, and a couple other Slytherins had also managed to get their brooms to rise on the first command.

Eventually, everyone got their brooms into their hands, and Madam Hooch went up and down the rows correcting grips on the handles. With not a little smugness, Sherlock smirked as Madam Hooch informed Malfoy he had been doing it wrong for years. Harry and Weasley looked rather vindictive as well.

"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard, " said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle - three - two - " _Child's play_, thought Sherlock, preparing to take off.

But Longbottom, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's lips.

"Come back, boy!" she shouted, but Longbottom was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle -twelve feet - twenty feet. Sherlock saw his pale white face, distorted with fear look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and -WHAM - a thud and a nasty crack later, Longbottom lay facedown on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was still rising higher and higher, and started to drift lazily toward the forbidden forest and out of sight.

Madam Hooch was bending over Longbottom, her face as white as his. "Broken wrist," Sherlock heard her mutter (an obvious diagnosis, given the unnatural angle of Longbottom's hand). "Come on, boy - it's all right, up you get."

She turned to the rest of the class. "None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch. ' Come on, dear." Longbottom, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him. Sherlock felt a spurt of pity for the boy. He had not wanted to participate in this class to begin with. To be injured as well? It seemed that Fate was feeling cruel today.

No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst into laughter. "Did you see his face, the great lump?" The other Slytherins joined in.

"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Parvati Patil, an Indian girl from Gryffindor.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Pansy Parkinson, a Slytherin girl whose squashed face reminded Sherlock of a pug. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati."

"Look!" said Malfoy, darting forward and snatching something out of the grass. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him." The Remembrall from the morning glittered in the sun as Malfoy held it up. Sherlock wondered why on earth Longbottom would carry that on him, rather than stowing it safely in his trunk.

"Give that here, Malfoy." Harry said quietly, stepping forwards to his Slytherin rival. The other kids stopped squabbling and backed off to watch the show.

Sherlock mentally face-palmed. This was idiotic._ Surely my peers are more mature than to bicker and fight over something as stupid as a Remembrall, surely?_

Malfoy smiled nastily. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find - how about - up a tree?"

"Give it here!" Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto his broomstick and taken off.

_So, maybe they aren't._

Malfoy hadn't been lying when he had bragged about his flying skills. He was fairly good, flying with the ease that came from years of practice and training. He hovered level with the topmost branches of a nearby oak tree, waving the Remembrall tauntingly over his head. "Come and get it, Potter!" He shouted.

And, like an idiot, Harry proceeded to grab his broom from the ground and mount it.

"No!" shouted Granger. "Madam Hooch told us not to move - you'll get us all into trouble."

Harry ignored her. Sherlock grabbed Harry's shoulder. "She's right, stop and think."

"I'm not going to let Malfoy get away with this." Harry snarled.

"No, we're not, but suppress the Gryffindor in you and stop doing exactly what Malfoy wants you to do." Sherlock said flatly. "He wants you to get yourself in trouble, and flying up there will do just that."

"Then how can we get Neville's Remembrall back?" John piped up.

"Like this." Sherlock drew his wand and pointed it straight at Malfoy. "_Expelliarmus!_" In a small flash of light, the Remembrall was knocked free of Malfoy's grip and came hurtling towards the ground.

Ditching his broom, Harry ran forward, and in a spectacular jump, snatched the device out of the air, saving it from shattering on the ground. The Gryffindors cheered as Harry triumphantly held up the Remembrall, smirking at the infuriated Malfoy over his shoulder.

"DRACO MALFOY!" A shout came from the direction of the school, and down the slope as fast as her heeled boots would allow her came Professor McGonagall, most likely sent by Madam Hooch to watch the class in her absence. "GET DOWN HERE IMMEDIATLY!"

Looking sufficiently cowed, Malfoy tilted forward and landed on the ground just in time for McGonagall to reach him.

"Never have I seen such a disgraceful display! Stealing, flying without permission, and trying to goad another student - one who has never flown in their life, I might add - into joining you! And don't try to deny it, I saw the whole thing from the school. 30 points from Slytherin, and detention."

"Holmes attacked me!" Malfoy pointed at Sherlock.

McGonagall turned her gaze to Sherlock. "You used _Expelliarmus_, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock nodded. "A perfectly safe spell used to disarm ones opponent. No harm was intended nor done to Malfoy."

McGonagall nodded. "10 points to Gryffindor, then, for using your head and impressive magic for your year."

John shook Sherlock arm, and grinned in congratulations at him. Sherlock smiled as well, warmth rolling about in his chest. It felt good, to be rewarded for his skill in magic.

"Now, Mr. Malfoy, report to Professor Snape for your detention assignment." McGonagall pointed towards the school, and with a scowl aimed at the Gryffindor students, the blond student trudged away.

"Now," said McGonagall as she turned to the rest of the class, "let's continue your lesson."

The rest of the lesson went uneventfully. The students were allowed to fly after McGonagall was sure that there would be no more Longbottom incidents, and Sherlock spent the majority of his time flying a circuit around the field, watching his fellow classmates and enjoying the weightless feeling of soaring through the air.

John required no assistance from him in this subject. Five minutes after McGonagall had turned them loose, John was flying just as well as Sherlock, and joined him in the fast-paced but steady loops Sherlock flew in, occasionally breaking away to try some small tricks.

Harry as well was an excellent flyer, taking to the air like a bird. If Sherlock didn't know better, he would have assumed that Harry had been flying his entire life. McGonagall seemed impressed with the Boy-Who-Lived, too. More than once, Sherlock caught her staring thoughtfully at the slim raven-haired child.

In fact, when it was time for the first years to return to the ground, McGonagall called Harry over for "a quick word". They were still talking as the group walked back up to the castle, and upon arriving at the Great Hall, McGonagall pulled out an older Gryffindor student, and the three conversed in the Entrance Hall while Sherlock, John, and Weasley waited at the table for Harry.

When Harry finally did return, it was with a happy, yet slightly confused expression.

"Well?" Weasley prodded as Harry sat down.

"I'm going to be trained to be Seeker for the Gryffindor Quidditch team." Harry revealed.

Sherlock cocked his head. "Seeker? But there hasn't been a first year Seeker in over -"

"- a century." Harry nodded. "That's what McGonagall said. But she saw me catch Neville's Remembrall - which I need to get back to him - and she said my flying was superb, and that I would be a good Seeker. Apparently they really need one."

"Well, congratulations, Harry." John praised.

"Thanks John." Harry smiled. "I just hope I'm good enough."

"I'm sure you will be."

"For a Gryffindork, you're not very brave, are you, Potter?" An unwelcome voice announced the presence of one Draco Malfoy and his ever-present hulk of bodyguards, stalking down the aisle towards the small group.

Harry frowned. "What are you talking about, Malfoy?"

"You were too cowardly to fight for your dumb friend, and let Holmes here solve your problem. Not very brave, in my opinion."

"Yet you're the one with the detention and Harry's the one who's -" Weasley began to fume.

"What's your point, Malfoy?" Harry cut his friend off. "Because if you don't have one, slither back to your own table."

"I merely want to see just how great you are without Holmes to bail you out, because I bet I could take you. Tonight. Wizard's duel. Wands only - no contact. What's the matter? Never heard of a wizard's duel before, I suppose?"

"Of course he has, " said Weasley. "I'm his second, who's yours?"

Malfoy looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up. "Crabbe, " he said. "Midnight all right? We'll meet you in the trophy room; that's always unlocked. " Without waiting for an answer, Malfoy and co. walked off.

"What is a wizard's duel?" said Harry. "And what do you mean, you're my second?"

Sherlock sighed. "Weasley has just agreed for you to face Malfoy in a duel of magic."

"A second's there to take over if you die, " said Ron casually, getting started at last on his cold pie. Catching the look on Harry's face, he added quickly, "But people only die in proper duels, you know, with real wizards. The most you and Malfoy will be able to do is send sparks at each other. Neither of you knows enough magic to do any real damage. I bet he expected you to refuse, anyway. "

"And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?" Harry fretted.

"Throw it away and punch him on the nose, " Weasley advised.

"Don't go at all." John interjected. "You'll get caught, all because Malfoy wants to pick a fight."

"Ron said I'd be there. If I don't show, it will just prove his point."

"John is right." Hermione Granger, sitting a couple seats down, said. The four turned to look at her, and she blushed faintly. "I couldn't help overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying - "

"Bet you could, " Weasley muttered.

"-and you mustn't go wandering around the school at night, think of the points you'll lose Gryffindor if you're caught, and you're bound to be. It's really very selfish of you."

"And it's not really your business." Harry said.

* * *

Hours later, when most of the other students in Gryffindor were asleep, Sherlock lied awake, imagining that Weasley, Harry, and possibly John were as well.

It was foolish for Harry and Weasley to sneak out. It was blatantly obvious that Malfoy would not show, instead tipping off a teacher or Filch to try and get Harry in trouble. Sherlock would have pointed this out to the new Seeker, but two things held him back. One, Harry would probably have ignored him anyway, going just in case the challenge was legitimate. Two (and Sherlock felt slightly guilty about this), if Harry and Weasley were going to be fooling around in the Trophy room, it would provide a decent distraction, allowing Sherlock to take a look at the third floor corridor.

At 15 minutes to midnight, Sherlock heard the sound of sheets rustling. A hiss punctured the silence, and Sherlock watched, through the gaps of his curtains, as Harry and Weasley picked their way across the room and out to the stairwell. He gave them four minutes for a head start, and slipped out of his own bed.

The minute his feet touched the wood floor, though, the curtains of John's bed slid open.

"What are you doing?" John said in a low voice.

"What are you still doing up?" Sherlock countered.

"I was waiting to see if Harry and Ron were actually going to go. But you still didn't answer my question. What are you doing?"

"Acting on an opportunity." Sherlock said cryptically, pulling a robe over his pajamas and his Muggle sneakers onto his feet.

"You're going out? Tonight?!" John whispered.

"No better night." Sherlock commented.

"Well - well then I'm coming with you!" John began to dress hurriedly as well.

"What?"

"I'm not going to let you wander the school alone."

"Why not? If you come and get us caught, you'll be in trouble too." Sherlock tried to put John off.

"Because I know you're going to the third floor corridor."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "How did you know -"

"You're a genius who gets bored and likes to get into trouble. It wasn't a hard leap to make." John admitted. "You heard Dumbledore, though, about intruders suffering a painful death."

"Yes, all the more reason for you not to come."

"No, all the more reason for me to come so you have someone to watch your back."

Sherlock stared. "You're not going to try to talk me out of it?"

John scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "I'm curious, too."

Sherlock thought quickly. It may be handy to have some back-up, even if that back-up might get him caught. And if he had to explore the third floor corridor with someone at Hogwarts, John was definitely his first choice.

"Alright, then. Just be absolutely silent." Sherlock hissed. John nodded, and together they descended to the common room and climbed out the portrait hole. The Fat Lady was not in her frame, which could prove problematic when they returned, but Sherlock decided to cross that bridge when he came to it.

It was slow going. The corridors were only faintly lit, so extra precaution had to be taken so that one of them didn't accidentally trip or fall through a trick step on one of the staircases. On the other hand, the ample shadows hid the skulking figures of the two students. A couple of times when they clung to the walls, Sherlock could not see John, despite knowing exactly where he was. Eventually though, they made it to the third floor corridor, which, for an off-limits deadly area of the school, had a surprising lack of guards.

John tried the handle. "Locked." He reported.

"Of course. Not much of a safeguard if they just leave it wide open."

"Safeguard?"

But before Sherlock could clarify -

"STUDENTS OUT OF BED!" a voice that Sherlock recognized as Peeves bellowed, "STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR!"

Footsteps began racing in their direction, and around the corner came, not teachers like Sherlock had been anticipating, but Harry, Weasley, Granger, and Longbottom.

"Sherlock? John?" Harry asked in surprise.

Weasley ignored them, however, and ran straight to the locked door behind them. He jiggled the handle furiously.

"It's locked." John supplied.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious." Weasley spat.

"Filch is coming!" Longbottom whined nervously.

"Move over!" Granger barreled through to the door and jabbed her wand at the lock. "_Alohomora_!" The handle turned and the door creaked open. This was all the encouragement the six assembled children needed, running inside and shutting the door behind them. Harry, Granger, Weasley, and Longbottom pressed their ears to the door, listening for Filch, but Sherlock and John were more focused on the occupant of the forbidden corridor (the other four didn't seem to realize where they were).

Six sleepy pairs of eyes were trained on the students, two for each head. Uncurling itself from the floor was a giant three-headed dog - a Cerberus, Sherlock's mind supplied. It was almost as tall and almost as long as the room it was stored in, and Sherlock briefly wondered how they had fit such an enormous animal through the human sized door they had just traveled through. As it was, there was barely enough room for the dog to even stand, and Sherlock pitied the poor animal. Being cooped up in such a small area was horrible. Looking at the animals feet, Sherlock spotted a trap door. So that's where the item from Gringotts was being kept; or at least, the way to the item.

The other four students turned away from the door, relieved smiles on their faces that vanished as they caught sight of the Cerberus. The dog began to growl, all three heads, exposing the many, many large sharp teeth. Sherlock's pity evaporated.

Somebody swung the door open, and the students poured out. Between the dog and Filch, any sane person would choose Filch. They ran as fast as they could, putting as much distance between them and the dog. The group didn't stop running until they had reached the Fat Lady.

"Where on earth have you all been?" she asked, looking at their flushed, sweaty faces.

"Never mind that - pig snout, pig snout." panted Harry, and the portrait swung forward. They scrambled into the common room and collapsed, trembling, into armchairs.

It was a while before any of them said anything. Indeed, poor Longbottom looked as if he'd never speak again (what had he and Granger been doing with Harry and Weasley anyway?).

"What do they think they're doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?" said Weasley finally. "If any dog needs exercise, that one does."

"You don't use your eyes, any of you, do you?" Granger snapped. "Didn't you see what it was standing on?"

"A trapdoor." Sherlock said shortly. "It's a guard dog."

"What were you two doing there, anyway?" Harry asked, a suspicious note underlying his words.

"Seeing what was in the corridor, of course. And now that question has been answered." Partly, anyway. There was still the matter of the trapdoor and the item the Cerberus was guarding.

"I hope you're pleased with yourselves, then." Granger huffed. "We could all have been killed - or worse, expelled. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to bed."

Weasley stared after her, his mouth open. "No, we don't mind, " he said. "You'd think we dragged her along, wouldn't you?" He asked Harry.

Harry wasn't listening to his friend, though. He was looking oddly at Sherlock. Sherlock recalled the conversation that they had had last Friday, about the trip to Gringotts. The grubby package that Harry had described was almost certainly the thing being guarded by the Cerberus, and both Harry and Sherlock knew it. What the package was, exactly, was still a mystery, but it was valuable enough to be guarded by such a vicious animal in a school. Sherlock felt a thrill run up his spine. A mystery, one that was itching to be solved.

**So? Give me your thoughts, your reactions, your huddled ideas. I take in all. (Except the flames, those suck, but thankfully I haven't had any on this fic)**

**I'm really enjoying writing this fic, but I'm trying to decide how big a part I want Sherlock to play in affecting the canon version, so suggestions there would be appreciated. Halloween is the next chapter, and I'm wondering how that will go down.**

**Have a great day/afternoon/evening! (I'll be spending my evening watching Dr. Who and Merlin, so freaking good so far!)**

**-Blue**


	7. Chapter 7

**Welcome to the next installment of The Sorting of Sherlock Holmes. You guys are absolutely phenomenal, you know that? You rock, really. **

**This chapter would have probably been up sooner, but I was basically out of commission for the month of August. The first week I was at my grandparents - without Wi-Fi. The second week I was vacationing at the beach (awesome time minus the sunburn) - without my laptop. The third week, school started up again, so my free time was cut down to zilch. But now it is finally ready, and on the day before September 1st, no less (by the time you read this, anyway)! **

**We have cover art! I stumbled upon to this piece of artwork on Deviantart, _Gryffindor_ by GarrulousGibberish, and they graciously allowed me to use it. Check out their page!**

**Allons-y! ****(I just watched David Tennant regenerate DX (I do like Matt Smith so far but I miss 10))**

The Sorting of Sherlock Holmes - Part Seven

"What are you doing?" The voice of John Watson broke through his carefully constructed bubble of thought. Sherlock opened one eye to glare at the blond first year in annoyance.

"I _was_ making use of my mind palace to see if I knew anything about our furry little problem, but now I've lost my focus." Sherlock said sharply.

"Sorry. What's a mind palace?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed. "It's a mental location where I store my memories and bits of information that are not useful at the moment but could possibly be in the future."

John nodded slowly, digesting the explanation. "And you think that you may have read something that would help you get past the dog?"

"Maybe." Sherlock pulled himself up from his neat sprawl on one of the couches in the Gryffindor common room. "But if you're up, then soon the rest of the house will be as well, and it will be impossible to recapture my mind palace with all the noise. I will attempt to search for information again later."

It was a week after the encounter with the Cerberus. Since then, Sherlock had decided to confide in John Watson, and had told him what he knew about the third floor corridor. Which, admittedly, was not much, just that somewhere underneath the trapdoor was a small object that had previously resided in Gringotts, and had quite nearly been stolen, and was valuable enough to warrent a Cerberus guarding it in a school of nosy children.

John had not had any brainwaves as to what that something could be, but agreed that it was a mystery and that there was no harm in trying to puzzle it out. Translation; he wasn't going to try to stop Sherlock, in fact he may even tag along, and that was all that mattered to the pureblood.

Harry and Weasley had recovered from the fright by the next morning, and seemed to think that it was a great adventure (Sherlock privately agreed), one that should be followed by even more. Granger and Longbottom felt the exact opposite. Longbottom wished to never see the Cerberus again (not an irrational idea, Sherlock admitted), and Granger refused to speak to any of them afterwards. Whether she thought them insane or arrogant troublemakers, Sherlock was not sure. Either way, Harry and Weasley counted this as a bonus. Sherlock felt indifferent. While a bit bossy, she was one of the few people in his year that was not a complete idiot, which gave her points in Sherlock's book.

"Come on, let's go downstairs." Sherlock smoothed down his robes as he moved to the portrait hole.

"It's too early for breakfast, though." John protested, even as he followed Sherlock out the common room.

"If you go to the Great Hall, it is." Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"Well, then where are we going?"

"Surely you can figure it out, John. Where else would there be food, besides the Great Hall?"

John thought as they descended the staircases. "The kitchens?"

"Very good, John. Absolutely correct."

"You know where the kitchens are?"

"Found them the first Friday we were here."

"Brilliant." John took a hurried, skip-like step, and caught up to Sherlock's long stride.

"Yes, it's far nicer there than in the Great Hall."

"Fewer idiots?" John smirked.

"_Yes_." Sherlock moaned. "Did you hear that Hufflepuff Anderson in Herbology yesterday? 'Do you have to water them every single hour?'" Sherlock lowered his voice in a crude imitation. "Of course you do, otherwise the teacher wouldn't have brought it up. Idiot." Sherlock scoffed. "Anyway, here we are." Sherlock waved his hand at the fruit bowl painting.

"Here?" John questioned.

"Where else would you put the kitchen?" Sherlock tickled the pear, and enjoyed the look on John's face when the shorter boy heard the pear giggle. The paining swung aside, and the kitchen and its workers were revealed to the two Gryffindors. When the two boys had climbed through, the same house elf who had greeted Sherlock the last time rushed up to them.

"Can Blinky get anything for Master Sherlock and his friend?" Blinky asked with large eager eyes.

"Blinky, this is John. And yes, I would like some tea and toast." Sherlock requested.

Blinky nodded eagerly and turned his gaze to John. "And what would Master John like?"

John was too busy gaping at the diminutive little creature to answer. Sherlock gave him a nudge with his elbow, like John had done at the Sorting Feast.

"Oh! Um, tea sounds great. Some eggs and sausage as well, if it's not too much trouble, um, Blinky?"

"No trouble at all, Master John." Blinky chirped, bowing and scuttling off to grab the ordered food. Sherlock guided John to the replica tables, and the boys took their seats.

"Sherlock, what are they?" John whispered.

"House elves. They serve ancient wizarding families typically, but Hogwarts is so large that it would be impossible to run without their services. They like to work, mind you, so don't try to do their work for them. It insults them. They live to serve."

"Oh-kay." John drawled, a funny look on his face.

"Sometimes Muggleborns think that they're slaves and try to free them." Sherlock explained. "It never ends well. They're happy like this, so it's best to leave them to it."

As if on cue, Blinky came running up with plates of food, another elf scurrying behind him with a steaming kettle, sugar bowl, and cream.

"Here you go, Masters Sherlock and John." The food was placed in front of them, and the elves bowed.

"Thank you, Blinky, that will be all."

"Yes, Master Sherlock." Blinky chirped, bowing once more before going back to his duties.

"Do you think you could use your mind palace now?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "Still too loud. Too much movement as well."

To fully delve into the deep memories Sherlock had stored in his mind palace, he needed absolute focus. Any noise or even too much activity around him was detrimental to this focus, making it nearly impossible for the boy to access his mind palace without complete peace. This was a fact that irked him to no end, especially since Mycroft was skilled enough to preform this trick at anytime, no matter what was going on around him.

Mycroft claimed it was easy, one just had to be able to ignore their surroundings long enough to gain entrance. Sherlock tried, quite often, but it just didn't come as easily to him as it did his red-haired brother. He was too in-tune with his senses, hyperaware of the noise and events around him. Blocking it out was difficult when sensory stimulation was pounding away at your mind to be noticed.

For the most part, when Sherlock needed to use his mind palace, he locked himself away in the quietest room he could find. With all the life about Hogwarts, though, Sherlock never managed this trick long enough to sufficiently check every nook and cranny for information on Cerberus's. He had managed to dig up some information, but nothing that would expose any weaknesses, just useless fact about their lifespans, diets, and the likes. Nothing useful, and it was annoying him to no end. He couldn't find the right information.

After finishing off their meal, Sherlock and John ascended to the library. If Sherlock could not use his mind palace, then he would try the second best option. While it would be extremely unlikely to find the correct information in the same building as the Cerberus (it would be foolish of the Headmaster not to remove any potentially dangerous information from the library), there was always a chance that something had been overlooked. Human error.

Sherlock guided the duo to the Magical Creatures section, and without a word, the two boys dove in.

* * *

"Ugh!" Sherlock cried a couple hours later, slamming a book shut and ignoring the nasty glare from Madam Pince before grabbing another one.

"Frustrated?" John smiled wanly, gently shutting his own book.

"Yes! There is nothing about taming Cerberus's in _How To Train the Untrainable_ or _Mythical Creatures You Never Knew Existed_ or any of the other dozen books I've searched through." Sherlock fumed.*

"I haven't had much luck either." John admitted, collecting the mess of books sprawled around the floor where the two boys had been sitting, beginning to reshelf them.

"I knew that Dumbledore would hide away every trace of Cerberus's that he could, but surely there would be some hint left in some obscure book."

John hummed under his breath. "Maybe - maybe we're looking in the wrong place." He murmured.

Sherlock popped his head up from the latest book he was skimming through. "You think we should check the restricted section?" He asked eagerly. He had been tossing around the idea for awhile now, and was itching to pursue the forbidden titles inside anyway. With any luck there would be information on Cerberus's, and maybe on Animagi transformations.

"What? No!" John snapped, shaking his head. "I mean, you said mythical earlier. Cerberus was the guard dog of the Underworld in Greek myths, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, wasn't there a myth about a guy who infiltrated the Underworld to get his wife back. Or-, Orfa-, Orfi-"

"Orpheus!" Sherlock cried, a grin spreading over his face as he leapt to his feet. "John, you're brilliant! Greek myths, of course! Only the most famous Cerberus of all time! The answer was right there!"

John grinned. "Happy to be of service. Now do you mind sharing that answer with me, because I just barely remember that the myth exists at all."

Sherlock paused in his enthusiastic cheering (both external and internal). "I'm not sure." He confessed sheepishly. "Greek myths didn't seem useful, so I never stored them in my mind palace. But surely there's a book of Greek myths here somewhere."

Sherlock dashed out of the Magical Creatures section and scanned the shelves around him, pacing up and down the aisles in search. Finally, he came across a dusty row emblazed with the section name Folk Tales, Myths, Fables, and Legends. From there, it didn't take him long to pull down a thick volume with the title_ Every Greek Myth Known to Muggle and Wizard_ stamped across the cover.

He brought the (admittedly heavy) volume back to John, who had just finished returning the Creature books to their proper places. Sherlock could have peeked at the myth, but it only felt fair to read the book with John at his side. The blond had been the one to think of it, after all.

John peering over his shoulder, Sherlock flipped through the pages, eyes flicking back and forth as they scanned for the name Orpheus.

"Here!" Sherlock cried, tapping a page halfway into the book. "The myth of Orpheus!"

"What does it say?" John asked eagerly, bouncing slightly with excitement.

"Orpheus used his reed pipes to play music that made the Cerberus sleepy enough that Orpheus could just sneak past him." Sherlock answered skimming the page.

"Music?" John echoed.

"'Music has charms to sooth a savage beast.'" Sherlock quoted. "Literally, in this case."

"Well, I guess I can dig out a recorder from primary school over the holidays, but I doubt anything that comes out of it can be considered music." John offered, skepticism glaringly loud in his voice.

"No need to do that, John. I can play the violin." Sherlock reassured as he read the myth over and over, committing the details to memory just in case he needed them again later.

"You can? I've never seen you practice it, though."

"Haven't had the motivation lately." Sherlock said, closing the book and striding up to the front desk to check the book out. When he got the opportunity, he would read the book and store the information in his mind palace. Apparently, Greek myths could actually be useful.

"But you can play well enough to get us past the dog?" John asked after they had made it out of the watchful eyes and ears of Madam Pince and into the corridor outside the library.

"Of course. If you do not believe me, I'd be happy to demonstrate."

"I believe you." John was quick to reassure. "But I would like to hear you play, if you don't mind." He smiled.

"Not at all. I rarely have a willing audience." Which was true enough in recent years. Mycroft never cared for the violin, mainly because he had not been able to master it himself, and his parents had stopped dropping by to listen to him play when he had grown more proficient in the art than his teacher.

"This evening, then. We have it off from classes." John promised as he led the two of them down towards the Great Hall (it would look suspicious if they didn't show up).

The two boys took their seats across from Harry and Weasley just as the mail arrived. However, it was not business as usual. This time around, catching the eye of nearly every student, were six screech owls carrying a long thin box. Sherlock squinted at the box, judging weight and proportions, and deduced that inside the package was a broomstick.

Just as he wondered who on earth was receiving a broomstick by owl in the morning post, the flock landed right in the middle of the quartet of Gryffindor boys. As the group dropped the package and fluttered away, a seventh owl flew up to Harry, dropping an envelope neatly onto his plate.

"What?" Harry blinked, bewildered.

"What kind of broomstick is it, Harry?" Sherlock questioned.

"Broomstick?" Harry echoed. "What - how - did you send this?" Harry pointed at the parcel.

Sherlock scoffed. "Give me a little more credit. If I were to give you a broomstick, which first years are not supposed to own, I wouldn't have it delivered to you in broad daylight in the middle of the Great Hall during breakfast. No, more likely one of the teachers got the rules bent and sent it. My money is on McGonagall, though I suppose Dumbledore might have had it purchased for you."

"Why don't you read the note?" John suggested after a moment passed in silence.

Harry took John's advice and slid a piece of parchment free from the envelope. He quickly scanned it, then looked up to say, "It was McGonagall."

"What kind of broom, Harry?" Weasley bounced in his seat.

"A Nimbus 2000." Harry smiled.

Weasley gapped. "That's the fastest broom on the market, top of the line. I've never even touched one." He half-moaned enviously.

"Harriet's saving up for one of those." John commented, staring at the innocent looking package in awe. "She's been rattling off its statistics all summer."

"It is a good broom." Sherlock admitted. "Mine has preformed quite fantastically from Day 1."

"You've got a Nimbus?" Weasley asked incredulously.

"Waiting for me back home. Worth every Knut."

"Come on, Harry, can we go to the common room and see it?" John pleaded eagerly.

Harry nodded, grinning widely, and the four boys abandoned their table for the door.

Halfway across the entrance hall, though, they found the way upstairs barred by Crabbe and Goyle.

Malfoy seized the package from Harry and felt it. "That's a broomstick," he said, throwing it back to Harry with a mixture of jealousy and spite on his face. "You'll be in for it this time, Potter, first years aren't allowed them."

Weasley couldn't resist. "It's not any old broomstick," he said, "it's a Nimbus Two Thousand. What did you say you've got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?" Weasley grinned at Harry. "Comets look flashy, but they're not in the same league as the Nimbus."

"What would you know about it, Weasley, you couldn't afford half the handle," Malfoy snapped back. "I suppose you and your brothers have to save up twig by twig."

Before Weasley could answer, Professor Flitwick appeared at Malfoy's elbow. "Not arguing, I hope, boys?" he squeaked.

"Potter's been sent a broomstick, Professor," said Malfoy quickly.

"Yes, yes, that's right, " said Professor Flitwick, beaming at Harry. "Professor McGonagall told me all about the special circumstances, Potter. And what model is it?"

"A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir, " said Harry, the four boys fighting not to laugh at the look of horror on Malfoy's face.

"A very fine broom, indeed, Potter. Well, go on. I'm sure you want to put it safely away before class, don't you?"

"Yes, professor." Harry smiled as he began to pound up the stairs, the other three boys pushing their way past Malfoy and his goons to join him.

"You know," Harry remarked as they neared the common room, "it's kind of thanks to Malfoy and you, Sherlock, that I got my broom. If Malfoy hadn't pulled that stunt and you hadn't made him drop the ball, McGonagall wouldn't have asked me to try out."

"You are very welcome, Harry." Sherlock gave a half-smile.

* * *

There was no time to ogle over Harry's new broom before the first class, so instead the four met up after dinner to adore the Nimbus Two Thousand.

"Wow," Weasley sighed, as the broomstick rolled onto Harry's bedspread. Even Sherlock, who was used to the luxury of a Nimbus, thought the broom looked impressive. Sleek and shiny, with a mahogany handle, it had a long tail of neat, straight twigs and _Nimbus Two Thousand_ written in gold near the top.

"It's beautiful." John whispered, one hand reached slightly out as if to touch it, but held at bay by the fear of somehow tainting its magnificent.

"It flies as well as it looks, too. You should perform spectacularly upon this broom if you have any sort of talent." Sherlock said bluntly.

""Um, thanks?" One corner of Harry's mouth quirked in an uncertain grin.

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock means that it's a great broom, and one that will help you do your best."

_I do?_ "Yes, of course."

Harry laid a hand on the handle almost reverently, and lifted it up. "It's nearly seven. I have to go meet Oliver Wood for lessons."

"See you later, Harry!" Weasley said, John and Sherlock echoing the thought. Grinning to the others over his shoulder one last time, Harry left the boys dorm and began climbing down the stairs.

Weasley turned to John and Sherlock. "I still have Snape's essay to do." He half-moaned. "Join me?" He looked hopefully at Sherlock.

"Maybe later." John said. "Sherlock wanted to show me something."

Weasley shrugged agreeably, then took his own leave.

"You were serious about hearing me play?" Sherlock asked, drifting to his bed and trunk.

"Of course."

"Well, all right then." Sherlock kneeled in front of his trunk and quickly undid the lock, shifting odds and ends around until he pulled out a polished wood violin and a slender bow to match. He perched himself on his bed, crossing his legs underneath him, and rested his instrument to the crook between his chin and his shoulder. He positioned his fingers, and after a slight hesitation as he ran through the compositions he knew by heart, he raised his bow, and began to play.

* * *

In what felt like next to no time at all to Sherlock, two months had passed by since the beginning of the year, and Halloween was upon them. The smell of baking pumpkins and cinnamon and apples filled the corridor, reminding everyone of the autumn season.

Progress on the Forbidden Corridor Puzzle, as John was fond of calling it, non-existent at best. Yes, they knew how to get past the Cerberus, but what laid beneath the trapdoor was still a total mystery beyond "more obstacles and traps". They still didn't even know what those safeguards were protecting!

Some days, Sherlock was tempted to sneak out, lull the beast to sleep, and take a peek at the next protection so he could plan on how to get past it. The problem was he would have to sneak out several times to enact this strategy of getting to the mystery object, and that would be very time-consuming, not to mention risky in the fact he would be likely to get caught if he constantly wandered the corridors at night.

So the third floor corridor remained untouched (at least by Sherlock and John), its secrets untold.

The first class of the day of Halloween for the fidgety first years was Charms. Today, they would be reviewing Wingardium Leviosa, a spell not everyone had managed to master the first time around and had been shelved for later. They were quickly partnered off for practiced by Flitwick. Sherlock considered himself lucky as he was partnered with Harry, rather than one of the other idiots in his class. At least Harry had quite nearly managed to perfect the spell last time. John was partnered with Seamus Finnigan (one of said idiots), and poor Ronald Weasley was saddled with Hermione Granger.

It was hard to tell whether Weasley of Granger was angrier about this. Granger hadn't spoken to any of them since the night of the midnight duel mishap.

"Now, don't forget that nice wrist movement!" squeaked Professor Flitwick, perched on top of his pile of books as usual. "Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too - never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said 's' instead of 'f' and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest."

It didn't take long for Sherlock to coach Harry enough for the Boy-Who-Lived to succeed in making his feather float.

Weasley, however, wasn't having much luck. "Wingardium Leviosa!" he shouted, waving his long arms like a windmill.

"You're saying it wrong." Sherlock heard Granger snap. "It's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long."

"You do it, then, if you're so clever, " Weasley snarled.

Granger rolled up the sleeves of her gown, flicked her wand, and said, "Wingardium Leviosa!" Their feather rose off the desk and hovered about four feet above their heads.

"Well done!" Professor Flitwick praised, clapping.

Weasley's mood was particularly bad afterwards.

"It's no wonder no one can stand her!" He complained to anyone who would listen as he walked with Harry, Sherlock, and John to their next class. "She's a nightmare, honestly!"

Someone pushed through the gap between Sherlock and Harry, speed walking shakily away. Sherlock managed to catch a glimpse of busy brown hair and a tear-streaked face before Granger rounded the corner.

"I think she heard you." Harry said softly.

"So?" Weasley said uncomfortably. "She must have noticed she's got no friends."

Sherlock frowned at the redhead. "If not for John, I would be exactly the same." He admitted sharply. "She's smarter than the majority of the class, including you, and that makes making friends difficult, especially when they don't take constructive criticism well." He said pointedly.

"Whatever." Weasley scowled uneasily.

Granger didn't turn up for the next class and wasn't seen all afternoon. On their way down to the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, the quartet of boys overheard Parvati Patil telling her friend Lavender that Granger was crying in the girls' bathroom and wanted to be left alone. Ron looked still more awkward at this, but a moment later he had entered the Great Hall, where the Halloween decorations put Granger out of his mind.

John, however, hung back.

"I'm going to go talk to Hermione." He told Sherlock outside the Hall.

"What? Why?" Sherlock blinked.

"Because despite what she might say, no one wants to cry alone. It might help to hear that someone thinks she's a nice person, too." John said.

"But she's in the girl's bathroom."

John blushed furiously. "I'm not going to go in there!" He hurriedly said. "I'll stand outside the door and talk to her from the corridor."

"All right." Sherlock sighed. "I'll save you some food from the feast if you don't make it back in time."

"Thanks!" John beamed, and he turned around and began climbing the staircase once more.

The Great Hall was spectacularly decorated in honor of the occasion. A thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and ceiling while a thousand more swooped over the tables in low black clouds, making the candles in the pumpkins stutter. The feast appeared suddenly on the golden plates, as it had at the start-of-term banquet.

Sherlock was helping himself to a caramel-soaked apple when the doors of the Hall were flung open with a resonating bang. Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the hall, his turban askew and terror on his face. Everyone stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore's chair, slumped against the table, and gasped, "Troll - in the dungeons - thought you ought to know. "

He then sank to the floor in a dead faint. There was an uproar of noise as the younger students began to panic loudly and the older students panicked only slightly less loudly. It took several purple firecrackers exploding from the end of Professor Dumbledore's wand to bring silence.

"Prefects," he rumbled, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!" (_Weren't the Slytherin dormitories in the dungeons?_ Sherlock briefly wondered, before dismissing the very low odds of a troll being able to get into the common room.)

Percy Weasley was in his element. "Follow me! Stick together, first years! No need to fear the troll if you follow my orders(Sherlock rolled his eyes at this proclamation)! Stay close behind me, now. Make way, first years coming through! Excuse me, I'm a prefect!"

"How could a troll get in?" Harry asked.

"Don't ask me, they're supposed to be really stupid," said Weasley. "Maybe Peeves let it in for a Halloweenjoke. "

As Sherlock got up to follow the crowd out the door, a thought hit him like a lightning bolt.

"John." He whispered.

Harry turned towards him. "What?"

"John." He repeated. "He went to go comfort Granger before the feast. Neither of them know about the troll."

"We've got to go get them!" Harry cried.

Weasley bit his lip. "Oh, all right, " he snapped. "But Percy'd better not see us."

Ducking down, they joined the Hufflepuffs going the other way, slipped down a deserted side corridor, and hurried off toward the girls' bathroom. They had just turned the corner when they heard quick footsteps behind them.

"Percy!" hissed Weasley, pulling Harry and Sherlock behind a large stone griffin. Peering around it, however, they saw not Percy Weasley but Snape. He crossed the corridor and disappeared from view.

"What's he doing?" Harry whispered. "Why isn't he down in the dungeons with the rest of the teachers?"

"Search me."

"Perhaps searching for strays like us." Sherlock suggested.

Quietly as possible, they crept along the next corridor after Snape's fading footsteps.

"He's heading for the third floor," Harry said, but Weasley held up his hand. "Can you smell something?"

Sherlock sniffed the air and a foul stench reached his nostrils, a mixture of old socks and the kind of public toilet no one seems to clean. He just barely kept from gagging. Then they heard it - a low grunting, and the shuffling footfalls of gigantic feet. Weasley pointed - at the end of a passage to the left, something huge was moving toward them. They shrank into the shadows and watched as it emerged into a patch of moonlight.

It was a horrible sight. Twelve feet tall, its skin was a dull, granite gray, its great lumpy body like a boulder with its small bald head perched on top like a coconut. It had short legs thick as tree trunks with flat, horny feet. The smell coming from it was incredible. It was holding a huge wooden club, which dragged along the floor because its arms were so long. The troll stopped next to a doorway and peered inside. It waggled its long ears, making up its tiny mind, then slouched slowly into the room.

"A mountain troll." Sherlock said. "They don't live anywhere near here." This was no Halloween prank like Weasley had proposed. This was a diversion. Sherlock's mind immediately flew to Snape marching to the direction of the corridor. Snape knew something was going on. The question was, was he the instigator, or did he suspect someone else of being so?

A high pitched shriek broke Sherlock's train of thought, and with icy dread, he finally recognized the room the troll had stumbled into as the girl's bathroom.

"Hermione!" Harry and Weasley cried.

"John." Sherlock uttered fearfully, and without another moments delay, rushed forwards to the restroom, Harry and Weasley hot on his heels.

The scene inside of the bathroom was chilling. The troll was looming over a row of broken sinks, where John was crouching in front of Granger, doing his best to shield her from the troll's ire, and from the heavy club the troll was raising. The rest of the room was smashed to pieces, any area of cover destroyed. There was nowhere for the two Gryffindors to go. They were trapped.

Sherlock's mind whirled. There was no time to get a teacher, and none of their spells would penetrate the hide of the hideous beast. Something else would have to be used as a weapon. His eyes went to the trolls enormous club. Perfect. But first, the focus needed to be drawn away from -

"OI!" Weasley shouted. "Pea brain!" The boy grabbed a piece of debris and chucked it at the back of the trolls head. His aim was true, and slammed against the troll hard enough to distract the troll from crushing his two would-be-victims. Harry followed suit, chucking splinters of wood from the destroyed stalls and slowly, like a mountain shifting, the troll turned to the three boys.

"John! Get her out of there!" Sherlock shouted.

The terror evident on his face aside, John nodded, and wrenched Granger up from where they were cornered.

"Keep distracting it!" Sherlock told Harry and Weasley.

"Right." Weasley's voice trembled, but he continued to throw things at the troll, drawing it away from John and Granger.

John guided Granger against the opposite wall, doing his best to keep them both outside of the trolls view. Granger looked a bit less shell-shocked, and had drawn her wand. Sherlock prayed she was thinking of doing anything stupid, at least not until everyone was clear of the troll (the only reason he had not yet tried to put his plan into action yet).

The troll had nearly reached the three of them now, and it begin to lift its heavy club into the air.

"Sherlock . . . ." Harry called.

"I've got this." Sherlock answered, waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting . . . Now!

"Wingardium Leviosa!" He flourished his wand, preciously at the moment the troll was about to bring it down. The club hovered in midair above the troll. The stupid creature, confused about why there was no longer a deadly weapon in his hand. He looked up, where he last remembered having the club, just in time to watch the club fall down and strike him down.

"Timber!" Harry shouted.

John and Granger ran the last few feet to the others, and as a group they watched the troll sway back and forth until he collapsed in a heap on the girl's bathroom floor.

Silence reigned over the five as they stared at their handiwork.

"Is - is it dead?" Granger asked tentatively.

"No, Granger, merely knocked out."

"Hermione." Granger immediately corrected. "Please. You just saved my life, all of you. I think we're on first name terms now." She smiled hesitantly.

"We should get out of here." Harry said nervously. "I don't think that the professors would be happy to find us here."

"You are absolutely right, Mr. Potter." An angry Scottish-accented voice trembled from behind them. The quintet turned to face Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape, and Professor Quirrell, looking livid, standoffish and cold, and positively terrified, respectively.

"What on earth did you think you were doing? Why are you not in your dormitories?"

"Please, professor, they were looking for me." Gran - _Hermione's_ small voice rang out.

"Ms. Granger?" McGonagall prompted, a note of surprise in her voice.

"Hermione was not feeling well at the feast, and John offered to walk her back to the dorms." Sherlock butted in. "When we noticed that neither of them were among us, we went to find them, and heard Hermione screaming."

"John was shielding me from the troll, Harry and Ron distracted the troll so we could get away, and Sherlock levitated the trolls club to knock it out." Hermione described. "If they hadn't shown up, both John and I would be dead."

McGonagall took a deep breath to steady herself. "Well, in that case . . . Not many first years could take on a full-grown mountain troll and live to tell the tale." She paused. "Five points to each of you. For sheer dumb luck." She added. "If you are not hurt, please go to your common room. The Houses are finishing the feast there."

The five wasted no time in leaving the bathroom and scurrying up the stairs to the Gryffindor common room. No one spoke a word on their ascent. The common room was packed and loud with the noise of all the Gryffindors pigging out and discussing what was going on with the rumored troll in the school.

Hermione turned to her rescuers. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Harry and John said.

"It was nothing." Ron shifted on his feet. "And, um, I'm sorry about what I said earlier."

Hermione didn't comment on this, she simply nodded, before turning again and marching to the table of food.

From that moment on, Granger and Weasley turned into Hermione and Ron. Because, Sherlock reflected when he realized the change in moniker, there are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them.

***Book titles are completely made up**

**So? What did you think? What did you like, dislike, etc? What do you want to see, any characters you desperately want to see? (I've already gotten a request for the Watson's at some point and Molly Hooper (sorry, but I'm afraid she's not likely at this point in time)). Please review, follow and fav if you haven't and like this.**

**I have set up a Facebook page for my writing persona! If you like fandom pics/headcanons, and want to read my rambling 2 am lonely nerd thoughts I need to share with another nerd, check me out! I start posting on it tomorrow. The name is Blue Seidr.**

**Have a fantastic day/night!**

**-Blue**


	8. Chapter 8

**Welcome back! Thank you everyone who has followed and favorited this story, it means a lot! So sorry about the lack of updating for the past couple months, but I am afraid I am not a particularly fast updater, especially since I am like a magpie in the respect that all new ideas grab my attention quite effectively (oh, shiny!). Currently, the idea gripping me now is a Merlin/Harry Potter oneshot taking place during the 2nd Task. Anyone interested in that?**

**I have also become obsessed with the boy that is now my profile picture. He is N from Pokémon; Black and White. I am not in the fandom, but my sister had me watch the N arc in the anime, and I played Pokémon Black, and now I am in love with the boy. He's so caring, naïve, extremely cute, selfless and so going to get himself killed by trying to end a Pokémon battle. Honestly.**

**Okay, so the story. I'm just going to say now that I have moved up the Harry Potter timeline to now, simply because I have no idea what was prominent in pop culture during the 80's and 90's. So sorry, but all my references will be from this decade. Also, this chapter had very little variation from canon (compared to other chapters), because not much happens in chapter 11 of the actual book. Don't worry though; next chapter is Christmas, and I have been looking forward to that chapter for ages now because *SPOILER*.**

**I think that's it for now, so enjoy!**

The Sorting of Sherlock Holmes - Part Eight

October slid into November, and the weather started to take a turn for the worse. Morning dew was replaced with frost, and Hagrid could be seen in the morning melting off Quidditch equipment that had been left outside overnight. Quidditch season had began, and the first game of the year was quickly approaching.

Without a word from any of the four boys, Hermione became a part of their group, something that Sherlock didn't mind like he thought he would if it was anyone else. Hermione was actually able to listen to Professor Binns lectures, and while she wouldn't outright give them the answers, seemingly innocent questioning and some subtle wheedling made sure that Sherlock obtained the specific answers he required, and allowed him to pass them on to John, Harry, and Ron.

But even better, Hermione was a Muggleborn that was extremely knowledgable about the Muggle world. Books had been some of her only compainions before Hogwarts, and she had retained much of the knowledge from them, and was happy to share it with Sherlock. John and Harry contributed whenever they could, and soon a bond based on the disscusion of Muggle technology and culture had been forged.

"So this Iron Man - how does his suit work?" Sherlock questioned, eyes light up with a rare gleam of wonder as the disscusion turned to popular figures in Muggle society over breakfast.

Hermione stifled a giggle. "Iron Man doesnt actually exist, Sherlock. He's a character in comic books and movies."

"Movies are the moving pictures, right?" Sherlock asked for conformation, which Harry gave.

"But can the suit be created in the real world?" He persisted.

John shook his head. "I'm sure people are trying, but it would take a lot of power to run something like that, and we don't have anything that could power something like that for long periods of time that would also be convient. In the comics, Tony Stark used an arc reacter, but we have no idea how to build anything similar."

Sherlock pouted slightly. He had been quite enthralled by the tales of a man in a flying suit that could shoot energy beams and other Muggle weapons.

"Could magic be used a power source?" He asked, not to be deterred.

This actually gave the three Muggleborns (or Muggle-raised, in Harry's case) pause for thought.

"I'm not sure." Hermione eventually answered. "You would still have to be able to create all the components of the suit, and find some way for the electronic wires to accept magic as a power source. Right now, magic and electronic parts don't mix."

"Why not?" Sherlock questioned. "They're both sources of energy, surely there's a way to combine them, or at least convert one to the other." Sherlock's mind began whirling. If he could find a way to use magic to power Muggle artifacts - why, the possibilities were endless! Light bulbs, for example, would be a great help. And cars and planes instead of Floo and brooms, and telephones and computers . . .

"- we haven't found one yet." Sherlock caught the tail end of Hermione's sentence.

"Then that shall be my next project!" Sherlock announced. Already, he started brainstorming ways to combine technology and magic. Maybe magic-conductive materials and some kind of magical battery? Yes, that may work!

"Hermione, I need you to explain exactly how a battery works. Oh, and I need every resource you can find on Iron Man and energy transfer and Muggle electronic technology in general." Sherlock spewed out rapidly, Hermione blinking at the long list of requests. Sherlock began flying through the sections in the school library, wondering where he could find a book about magic and Muggle electronics. Then again, that was a relatively recent development by Wizarding standards, so he might have to owl-order from Flourish and Blotts . . .

"Oh boy." John muttered under his breath.

Ron was less subtle, letting loose a loud drawn-out groan and banging his head against the table.

"Ronald!" Hermione reflexively snapped.

"You've been jabbering on about this for ages!" Ron complained. "And now you're encouraging Holmes to blow us all up with crazy Muggle stuff!"

"Rest assured, Ronald, I will endeavor to live through my experimentation. Now Hermione, can you get those things? I'll lend you Redbeard and money if you need them." Sherlock offered. Said owl, enjoying handouts from Gryffindors who had become familiar with the exotic bird, looked up at his name and gave a soft hoot of acceptance.

Hermione bit her lip as she thought. "I can ask my parents to get printouts from the Internet, so there's no need to give me money, Sherlock." She assured. "And yes, I would love to use Redbeard. Just let me write up a letter first."

"Can we go now?" Ron moaned.

"Yes, Ron, we're done here." Hermione sniffed slightly disdainfully at the ginger's impatience. "We still have time before Charms, so let's go over the assignment one more time."

The look on Ron's face could only be described as pure horror at what he had gotten himself into.

* * *

_Correspondence_

_From: Hermione Granger_

_To: Mr. and Mrs. Granger_

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_So much has happened since the last time I wrote! I have made four new friends, all in one night! See, on Halloween, a troll had gotten into the school (still no one knows how, or at least they haven't told us students) and cornered me in the girls loo, and four boys in my house came to my rescue. Their names are Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes._

_ I think I've mentioned Harry and Sherlock before, haven't I? Harry is the Boy-Who-Lived, practically the Savior of the Wizarding World, but he's really nice and polite and not at all stuck up about it. In fact, I would say he was embarrassed by all the attention. He grew up in the Muggle world like me, so I guess he wouldn't be used to all the attention._

_ Sherlock is the boy who's ahead of me in every class. He's really brilliant, but he's so aloof most of the time, unless he's talking to John or with us (meaning Harry, John and I) about the Muggle World. He's what's known as a Pureblood, descended from an all-wizard family, and so he's had very little in-depth contact with our world. He's extremely curious about it, though, and loves listening to Harry, John and me explain things about it. Ron, also a Pureblood, isn't anywhere near as fascinated (how could he not, though? Surely the Muggle World to him is like the Wizarding World is for me?)._

_This actually brings me to a request. We were talking about Iron Man, and Sherlock inquired about the suit. When we broke it to him that Tony Stark and his inventions were fiction, he immediately began asking if it was possible for Muggles to build one, and then if magic could be used as a power source. He's asked me for information on how a battery works, Muggle electronic technology, energy transfer, and Iron Man. I think he wants to try to make the suit, or at least a power source for it!_

_Muggle electronics and magic don't mix; magic fries circuits. Yet Sherlock wants to try to figure out how to get around that problem. The funny thing is, I think he could get it done! He's that smart! So if you could get some information, I'm sure he would really appreciate it._

_On another note, my grades are still very high. I love all my classes, but if I had to pick a favorite, I would have to say Transfiguration. It's taught by my Head of House, Professor McGonagall (you remember her, right?), and it's such a fascinating subject! Turning one object into another, causing objects to vanish and appear, it's just like my old picture books. Charms is also amazing, we've learned how to make objects float!_

_Enclosed is my finished Muggle homework, I'm ready for the next batch. I'll see you at Christmas holiday._

_Love, _

_Hermione_

* * *

The day before Harry's first Quidditch match found the quintet in a corner of the entrance courtyard. Harry's position as Gryffindor had been kept a secret from everyone not on a need-to-know basis, so naturally, the whole school knew by now. Students passing by the Boy-Who-Lived made comments on his expected performance, ranging from how he would be absolutely brilliant to how the hospital wing was ready for him. In an effort to get some peace from the masses the day before the Quidditch match, Harry had asked if they could go outside, where most students were reluctant to brave the chilling cold.

Hermione had demonstrated her advanced studying skills and produced a small flame that could be safely carried in a jam jar (helpfully provided by John). Huddled with their backs to the fire, the five Gryffindors were kept warm while keeping the might-be-rule-breaking fire.

Hermione, John, and Ron were engaged with an essay due in Transfiguration Monday, debating points where their research disagreed. Harry had borrowed Quidditch Through the Ages from the library at Hermione's recommendation, and was now thoroughly absorbed by the book. Sherlock had managed to get a folder full of Internet printouts on batteries, electricity, and the concept of energy from the Grangers the day before (they were now ranking above his own parents in his list of tolerated people), and was now pouring over the mound of information, recording and storing as much of it as he could into a new room in his mind palace, while also jotting down notes and connections on a pad of Muggle paper with a pen borrowed from John.

(Yet another reason he was in love with Muggle tech. The pen and paper pad - infinitely more effectient than parchment, quill and ink. No endlessly dipping into ink bottles, no annoying splotches on the parchment, a firm back to write on that was also portable - Sherlock could go on and on about the new method of taking notes (and in fact he had when John had first given him the supplies, clearing out the common room in record time).)

The part about conduction moving energy from one place to another was fascinating. If he could find a way to control conducting magic to make its energy fuel the pieces it was required to, then he could conceivable make something similar to a circuit, and use that circuit to power something. What conducted magic? The cores of wands were made to conduct their personal magic and amplified its effect and power, and all cores derived from pieces of magical creatures. Hmm . . . Perhaps a book on wandology was required for this task.

Their relative peace was interrupted by the arrival of Professor Snape marching as quickly as he could across the cobblestones. This march was impeded by a limp that not even Weasley could have missed. Sherlock took in the implications. Snape developing a limp a week after being spotted headed towards the third floor corridor. So he must have been injured by the Cerberus. Why had he actually gone into the corridor? To check on the protections? Or to use the troll as a diversion to get in? If just checking the protections, then Snape suspected someone of going after the stone? He had been among the three teachers that had responded to them taking down the troll, so was one of the other three a suspect (Quirrell or McGonagall), or had Snape been forced away from the scene?

There were too many possibilities, too many variables. It was impossible to make even a hypothesis.

Something on their faces must have given Snape pause, because after catching them in his peripheral vision, he came marching towards them.

A quick whispered word from Hermione caused the fire behind them to go out. By the time Snape had reached the knot of students, there was nothing in sight to suggest any rule breaking. Of course, this didn't stop Snape from taking points from Gryffindor.

"What have you got, Potter?" He sneered.

Harry showed the professor the Quidditch book.

"Library books are not to be taken from the school. 5 points from Gryffindor." Snape barked as he snatched the book away.

"He made that rule up!" Harry growled as soon as the professor was out of earshot.

"Of course he did, but it's not worth arguing over." John stated matter-of-factly.

"Wonder what's wrong with his leg?" Harry muttered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was completely obvious what was wrong with Snape's leg, but if Harry couldn't figure it out himself, then Sherlock wasn't going to tell him.

"I don't know, but I hope it's really hurting him." Weasley wished.

* * *

As it turned out, Harry found out later that very same day.

Sherlock and Ron were just about to begin a chess match (something Sherlock had been looking forward to since he had learned of Ron's surprising skill at the game) when Harry came bursting through the portrait hole, panting wildly.

"Get your book back, mate?" Ron asked, surprised at the state of his best friend.

"No, but listen. I walked in on Snape and Professor Flitwick - Flitwick was treating a wound on Snape's leg." Harry rushed.

"Well, obviously." Sherlock sighed. Harry and Ron trained their twin expressions of shock on him. "Obviously, Snape was in the third corridor with the dog on Halloween."

"You knew?" Harry asked.

"How could I not? We all saw Snape heading that way on Halloween, and just after he starts limping? Dear God, what is it like in those funny little brains of yours?" Sherlock genuinely asked.

"Well, then that means that whatever is down there, Snape is after it."

"Maybe." Sherlock hummed. "Maybe not."

"Well, what else could he have been doing there?" Ron threw his hands up.

"Perhaps trying to make sure that no one else was going to make a bid for it. That night was a golden opportunity with the troll distracting all of the teachers and students. We already determined that there was no way a troll could get into the school on it's own; someone had to have let it in."

"Maybe." Harry didn't seem that convinced. "But that doesn't mean Snape isn't after it."

"I never said it did." Sherlock replied coolly. "All I am saying is that an open mind needs to be kept in regards to Snape and his motives. For all we know, anyone in this school could be after the prize."

* * *

The next day dawned clear and bitterly cold. The entire school was buzzing in the Great Hall about the Quidditch match just an hour away as John, Harry, and Ron met Hermione and Sherlock at the Gryffindor table.

The table was full of breakfast items, but Harry picked at his food, nerves obviously filling his stomach. "I'm not hungry, Hermione." He proclaimed.

"Come on, Harry, you need to eat something." Hermione pleaded.

"I'm fine, Hermione, I just don't want anything."

"Just a bit of toast, Harry?" John offered, dumping said food onto Harry's plate.

"Ah, so now you're feeding Harry as well?" Sherlock questioned, nibbling at a muffin (also courtesy of John).

"It's your own faults." John answered unapologetically. "You would avoid eating until you passed out if I didn't make you, and I don't want Harry falling off his broom because he didn't bother to even eat some toast." This last part was accompanied with a glare in Harry's direction.

"He's right, Harry, you need your strength." said Seamus Finnigan. "Seekers are always the ones who get clobbered by the other team."

"Yes, thank you for your input in a conversation you have no part in, Finnigan." Sherlock drawled. Finnigan looked slightly put out as he poured ketchup onto his sausages (a combination that turned Sherlock's stomach).

But Harry conceded either way, and managed to choke down toast and an apple before it was time to head to the pitch.

* * *

Harry joined the Gryffindor team as it left the Great Hall, leaving John, Ron, Sherlock, and Hermione to make their own way to the Quidditch field.

The field was about the size of a Muggle rugby field, perhaps a bit longer and narrower. The stands were raised about 25 feet above the pitch, allowing the spectators to view the action from a decent vantage point. Several towers were positioned at regular intervals in the stands, and inside one of them sat the professors, commentator and scorekeeper, and Headmaster. Presumably, the other towers were for special guests, but as of right now, they were unoccupied.

The four settled into front row seats along with Neville, Seamus, and Dean (who happened to be a fan of a Muggle football team), and Ron and Hermione conferred quickly with the other first years. A few minutes before the match began, they pulled out a bed sheet with the words "Potter for President" painted on them, and a reasonably well-drawn lion underneath. Hermione whipped her wand, and the paint began to flash different colors.

"What is that even supposed to mean? Harry's not running for president, he's just playing Quidditch." Sherlock complained.

"Hush." John muttered. "It's supportive. Look supportive." He nudged.

"If I must." Sherlock sighed woefully. Truth be told, while he did enjoy flying itself, he did not see the point of the sport Quidditch. The Seeker was the only player with any real value; the Chasers almost never scored enough points to make catching the Snitch a moot point, so even if every other player sucked, as long as the Seeker was decent, the team could win. It didn't seem fair to Sherlock that the Chasers and Keepers went to all that trouble for basically nothing. Now, if each goal was worth 50 points, now it would be different. 3 goals would be equal to a Snitch, and strategy would play a larger role in when the Snitch was caught. It would also lend more purpose to the other players. If Sherlock didn't think he would get lynched for doing so, he would suggest such a change to the rules.

But, Harry was someone he got along with, and John was his friend and Harry's friend, so Sherlock would do his best to try to look interested in the game and supportive.

The two teams walked onto the pitch and took the air, Keepers heading to their goalposts, Chasers and Beaters ringing the toss-up circle (Sherlock could just make out the two fiery orange heads belonging to the Beaters Weasley and Weasley), and Harry and the Slytherin Seeker hovering above all of that where they would have the best vantage point of the pitch. Madame Hooch flew only a few feet off the ground, and after saying a few words to the 14 players (her focus on the Slytherin captain in particular), she tossed the Quaffle up, and the game began!

"And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor-" announced the commentator, a friend of the Weasley twins by the name of Lee Jordan "- what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too -"

"JORDAN!" Professor McGonagall roared.

"Sorry, Professor." Jordan apologized, not sounding sorry at all. "And she's really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood's, last year only a reserve - back to Johnson and - no, the Slytherins have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes -"

Sherlock irrationally felt his heart speed up as the green-robed figure streaked up the field towards the goal. What was wrong with him? Was he having a heart attack?

"- Flint flying like an eagle up there - he's going to sc-no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Wood -" Sherlock allowed himself to smile at this news, and the return of a normal heartbeat, "- and the Gryffindors take the Quaffle - that's Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice dive around Flint, off up the field and - OUCH - that must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a Bludger -" Sherlock winced at the crack of the Bludger connecting with the back of Bell's head. Jordan was right. That had to have hurt, quite painfully. But the girl waved off the referee, continuing a circuit around the field. Sherlock rolled. Gryffindors and their bull-headed recklessness.

"Quaffle taken by the Slytherins - that's Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal posts, but he's blocked by a second Bludger - sent his way by Fred or George Weasley, can't tell which - nice play by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson back in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes - she's really flying - dodges a speeding Bludger - the goal posts are ahead - come on, now, Angelina - Keeper Bletchley dives - misses - GRYFFINDORS SCORE!"

3/4ths of the stadium burst into cheers and applause, while the green-scarfed children managed to work up a loud enough moan to be heard against the overwhelming noise. Sherlock settled for clapping his hands appreciatively for his House.

"Budge up there, move along "

"Hagrid!" Ron and Hermione, and John and Sherlock, squeezed together to give Hagrid enough space to join them in between the two pairs.

"Bin watchin' from me hut," said Hagrid, patting a large pair of binoculars around his neck, "But it isn't the same as bein' in the crowd. No sign of the Snitch yet, eh?"

"Nope, " said Ron. "Harry hasn't had much to do yet."

"Kept outta trouble, though, that's somethin'," said Hagrid somewhat ominously, raising his binoculars and peering skyward at the speck that was Harry.

Way up above them, Harry was gliding over the game, squinting about for some sign of the Snitch. A Bludger was shot his way, and for a brief moment, Sherlock sucked in a breath, thinking that the hit would connect, but Harry deftly maneuvered out of the way of the heavy ball. Suddenly -

"Wait a moment - was that the Snitch?" Jordan asked rhetorically. The Slytherin Chaser Pucey dropped the Quaffle as his eyes followed the glint of gold that was buzzing around him. Harry shot towards the Snitch, but the Slytherin Seeker was hot on his trail, and they were drawing neck-and-neck as they drew closer and closer to the small golden ball. All the Chasers seemed to forget that they had another job to be doing and froze as they watched the pair race for the gold.

Harry was slowly pulling ahead, aided by the better quality broom he flew, and stretched out his hand for the Snitch -

WHAM! Marcus Flint had rammed into Harry, sending Harry clinging to his broom as he spun out of control, and the Snitch being lost in the confusion.

The air was filled with screams of outrage for the Gryffindor Seeker, and while Sherlock wasn't surprised that John, Hermione, and Ron were vocal among them, he was surprised that his own voice had taken a life of its own, and was protesting about the dirty move, while his stomach did backflips at what could possibly have happened. Harry could have been knocked off his broom! At this height, he would have been severely injured, if he hadn't died! (And when had Sherlock grown to care so much, he wondered.)

Hooch blew her whistle, and after a few angry minutes of arguing with the offender, awarded a free penalty goal to Gryffindor.

"Send him off, ref! Red card!" Dean Thomas was yelling. John was nodding violently along, an out-of-place scowl curling on his lips.

"What are you talking about, Dean?" said Ron.

"Red card!" John began to explain furiously. "In soccer you get shown the red card and you're out of the game!" Dean's head was bobbing up and down like a bobblehead.

"But this isn't soccer, John." Ron reminded the two Muggleborns.

Hagrid was on their side, though. "They oughta change the rules. Flint coulda knocked Harry outta the air."

Sherlock growled. "Harry would have almost certainly have been killed if he had fallen off his broom, unless someone was quick enough to apply a Cushioning Charm or slow his descent, but I doubt that there would have been enough time to do so. I don't think changing the rules would have stopped Flint from risking it, though." He added darkly.

On the magical megaphone, Jordan seemed to be following their own lines of thought in the commentary. "So - after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating -"

"Jordan!" growled Professor McGonagall.

"I mean, after that open and revolting foul -"

"Jordan, I'm warning you -"

"All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I'm sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinner, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor still in possession."

Only minutes later, though, as Harry dodged a Bludger, something else life threatening endangered the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Harry!" Hermione screamed, pointing up at the Gryffindor Seeker. His broom was bucking up and down at incredible speeds, shaking side-to-side and doing flips and abrupt turns. Sherlock couldn't help but compare the brooms motions to a bucking horse trying to throw off its rider.

All around the stadium, others were noticing Harry's problem, and were pointing and shrieking. The Weasley twins attempted to get close enough to pull him off his broom, but every time they got within 10 feet, the broom shot up higher and higher into the sky. Finally, the twins began circling below, hoping to catch the Seeker if he should fall - and with the increasing erratic movements, it was bound to happen sooner rather than later.

"Did something happen to it when Flint blocked him?" Seamus Finnigan whispered.

"Can't have," Hagrid said, his voice shaking. "Can't nothing interfere with a broomstick except powerful Dark magic - no kid could do that to a Nimbus Two Thousand."

Sherlock took in a sharp breath. Of course. How could he be so stupid? He snatched Hagrid's binoculars from the giant man's hands, and focused them in on the teachers box. There! Professor Snape was muttering something, eyes unblinking, but the raven-haired Gryffindor couldn't tell what exactly the man was saying. It wasn't English, that much Sherlock was sure of. A spell, then. But was it the curse, or a countercurse? Sherlock scanned the rest of the teachers, and found that only Quirrell, in the front row with his back to the rest of the box, was both speaking and not blinking. One had to be doing the cursing, and the other must have been trying to save Harry. For now it was apparent that Harry would have fallen off long ago had he been unassisted by magic.

"Hermione." Sherlock said sharply, the Muggleborn almost in frantic tears as she turned to look at him. "Snape and Quirrell are both spelling the broom, but I can't tell what either of them are saying."

Hermione's mouth set in a determined frown. "Leave it to me." She said quickly, ducking behind him to the stands staircase and tearing off into a run.

Sherlock refocused his attention on the teachers box, cursing that the binoculars Hagrid had bought were not strong enough to clearly see the two professors lip movements. Otherwise, he could have told exactly which one was the enemy. The crowd gasped, and Sherlock swung his gaze back to Harry, his own breath being forcibly removed from his body as he saw Harry was now only hanging onto his broom by his fingers.

"Come on, Hermione." Sherlock breathed.

As if she had heard his plea, Hermione chose that exact moment to act. Whispering a spell, she managed to set Snape's robes on fire, causing the professor to flail and knock Quirrell down from his seat. Harry's broom calmed, docile as a kitten as it floated in the air, and, after making sure that the Nimbus would not suddenly try to buck him again, Harry clambered back on.

"Thank God." John sighed.

"That was close." Ron agreed. "Neville, you can look now."

The pudgy boy, who had been sobbing into Hagrid's jacket for the last few minutes, looked up through tear-blurred eyes to see that Harry was, in fact, no longer in danger of being bucked off his broom.

But he was, Sherlock thought angrily (considering hexing the boy himself), in danger from his complete Gryffindor disregard for self-preservation, for only moments after recovering from his potential brush with death, Harry dove straight down towards the ground, clasping his hands over his mouth like he was about to be sick. He landed on all fours on the pitch, and spat out of his mouth the Golden Snitch.

"I've got the Snitch!" Harry shouted to the referee, waving the golden ball in his hand, ending the game with a Gryffindor win in complete and total confusion.

The Slytherins tried to protest the fact that Harry hadn't caught the ball, he had nearly swallowed it, but as there was no rules that the Snitch had to be caught with the Seekers hands, Lee Jordan gleefully announced that Gryffindor had stomped Slytherin 170 to 60.

* * *

Back at Hagrid's, Harry was being made a strong cup of tea.

"It was Snape!" Ron proclaimed to Harry.

"Or Quirrell." Sherlock repeated for what felt like the hundredth time (why did he associate with morons like Ron Weasley again? Right, John and the troll incident.). "I saw both of them using magic, but I couldn't tell which one was cursing the broom and which one was trying to save Harry."

"It was Snape." Ron said firmly. "Why would Quirrell want to kill Harry? Snape's got motive; he hates Harry and Harry saw that bite on his leg. This was him trying to off Harry before he could say anything!"

"Quirrell _is_ the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Sherlock." Hermione said hesitantly. "If he noticed that Harry's broom was being cursed, surely he would do something about it."

"According to Harry, Flitwick was treating the leg, and Snape was telling him how he got the bite from that Cerberus in the forbidden corridor. Yet, Flitwick seems just fine. Anyway, if Snape had wanted to kill Harry, surely he could have rigged a Potions accident easily enough?" Sherlock retaliated.

"Cerberus?" Hagrid interjected. "How do you know about Fluffy?"

The five children turned to Hagrid.

"Fluffy?" John echoed. "That thing is called Fluffy?"

"Yeah - he's mine - bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las' year - I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the -"

"Yes?" Harry asked eagerly.

"Now, don't ask me anymore," said Hagrid gruffly. "That's top secret, that is."

"But someone's trying to steal it!" John said. "Most likely Snape." He sent an apologetic glance to Sherlock, who huffed and looked away. "We saw him headed to the forbidden corridor on Halloween."

"Snape's a Hogwarts teacher, he'd do nothin' of the sort." Hagrid said firmly.

"A Hogwarts teacher just tried to kill Harry." Sherlock said icily. "You said it yourself; no child here could have jinxed Harry's broom midgame, and I saw with my own eyes Snape and Quirrell fighting for control. What we need to determine is which one is truly loyal and who is after the object in the corridor."

Hagrid was sheepish, but still plowed on. "I'm tellin' yeh, yer wrong!" said Hagrid hotly. "I don' know why Harry's broom acted like that, but neither Snape or Quirrell would try an' kill a student! Now, listen to me, all five of yeh - yer meddlin' in things that don' concern yeh. It's dangerous. You forget that dog, an' you forget what it's guardin', that's between Professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel - "

"Aha!" said Harry, "so there's someone called Nicolas Flamel involved, is there?"

Hagrid looked furious with himself.

Sherlock's heart stopped. Nicolas Flamel. The only known maker of the Sorcerer's Stone. A substance that turned lead into gold and created the Elixir of Life. And that very substance was now currently residing inside the school. It took Sherlock a minute to remember to breathe. The Sorcerer's Stone was being held in the school - in a school, full of innocent children, when someone had already proven that they were ready to go to any lengths to gain it by breaking into Gringotts! Was Dumbledore insane?! This reeked of bad idea, especially since half the school was probably aware of the vicious dog that resided on the third floor (Sherlock was under no illusions that he and John were the only people in the school curious enough to ignore the Headmasters warning of death - he knew for a fact the Weasley twins had already popped in to check out the forbidden wing), and it surely could not be that hard to figure out a Cerberus' weakness. Sherlock could only pray that the other defenses in place were more effective.

But another part of him was marveling at the discovery. A Sorcerer's Stone in the same building as him! The deepest secret of alchemy, known only to one, just sitting there! Sherlock was half-tempted to go after the Stone himself to study it. Think of the breakthroughs! And yet another part of him wanted to rush down to the hiding place so he could destroy the Stone. If someone like Voldemort, or Malfoy, or any of his family members, now that he thought about, got their grubby paws on the Stone, it would spell disaster on a global scale. Unlimited gold to fund a rampage or bribe politicians to change laws. The Elixir of Life, preventing one from ever dying of old age, maybe even granting immortality from spells (though that was currently unknown).

The ultimate source of power in existence, and it was sitting inside a school stuffed to the gills with nosey schoolchildren that could double as hostages if Snape/Quirrell so chose.

Sherlock had a very bad feeling about the coming months.

**And there you have it! Sherlock now knows that the package from Gringotts is the Sorcerers Stone (and I know that it's technically Philosopher's Stone, but I'm American, so I say Sorcerer's Stone).**

**I'm struggling to not completely end the main plot before it even starts, but I can't imagine Sherlock being convinced that Snape is the culprit, so hopefully I'm doing okay there (though I think I might be drawing too much from King of Serpents, an Artemis Fowl/Harry Potter crossover I am a huge fan of, but I'm trying my best to be original). **

**So you know the deal. Anything or anyone you want to see Sherlock interact with? What did you like/dislike about this chapter? Review please!**

**Next time, Christmas! And since Sherlock is free for the holidays . . . *smile***

**Have a fantastic day/night!**

**-Blue**


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